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* 


POEMS. 


3rt  ifbmarij  (if 
3lafpt  I’myle  (i’lu'tllg 


POEMS 


BY 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 


FIRST  AMERICAN  EDITION. 


BOSTON  college  library 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


BOSTON: 

FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  & CO., 

SUCCESSORS  TO  TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS. 

1 8 70. 


Through  harmony  of  words  may  murmur  the  har- 
mony of  things  ; whispers  of  human  life  and  the  world 
our  scene,  pensive  memories,  high  hopes,  musically  min- 
gling,— at  fit  moments,  to  soothe,  cheer,  strengthen. 
Fine,  mystical,  and  complex  is  our  being,  in  the  midst 
of  manifold  operation,  which  we  feel  without  compre- 
hending; and  Poetry  is  no  less  real  than  Existence. 


169413 


By  the  good-will  of  Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Fields, 
this  little  book,  written  in  Ireland,  is  reproduced  in 
America. 

An  Irishman  can  hardly  look  westward  without  think- 
ing of  the  great  country  to  which  his  island  is  the  near- 
est European  land,  and  without  remembering,  though 
the  magnetic  link  is  broken,  that  by  many  infrangible 
ties  they  remain  connected.  Among  the  rest  are  liter- 
ary ties;  and  some  of  these  songs  even,  made  for  Irish 
peasants,  have  already  migrated  with  them  across  the 
Atlantic.  To  my  own  imagination  America  is  for  many 
reasons  the  most  interesting  of  countries,  and  specially 
because  of  a certain  living  Writer,  — one  of  the  men  in 
whose  rank  no  country  has  many,  living  or  departed, 
and  with  whom  current  opinions  are  never  prepared  to 
deal. 

His  are  the  following  words:  “Let  us  take  heed  to 
what  surrounds  us.  To-day  is  a king  in  disguise.” 
And  these : “ The  foundations  of  man  are  not  in  matter, 
but  in  spirit.  But  the  element  of  spirit  is  eternity.” 

W.  A. 

Ballyshannon,  Ireland,  May,  1860. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Day  and  Night  Songs — First  Series:  — 

I.  THE  TOUCHSTONE 15 

II.  EYEY 17 

III.  WINDLASS  SONG 19 

IY.  VENUS  QF  THE  NEEDLE 21 

V.  THE  FISHERMAN 24 

VI.  iEOLIAN  HARP  — “ WHAT  SAITH  THE 

"%IVER?” 26 

vii.  oh!  were  my  love 28 

VIII.  THE  FAIRIES..  30 

IX.  THE  RUINED  CHAPEL 33 

X.  A DREAM 35 

XI.  LEVA VI  OCULOS 37 

XII.  CROSS-EXAMINATION 39 

XIII.  THE  CUPIDS 41 

XIV.  LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY 43 

XV.  IN  A SPRING  GROVE 47 

XVI.  SERENADE 48 

XVII.  THE  DIRTY  OLD  MAN 50 

XVIII.  THE  BRIGHT  LITTLE  GIRL 55 

XIX.  THE  WAYSIDE  WELL 57 

XX.  THE  LOVER  AND  BIRDS 60 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

XXI.  THE  MILKMAID 63 

XXII.  THE  LIGHTHOUSE 66 

XXIII.  THE  VALLEY  STREAM 68 

XXIV.  iEOLIAN  HARP — “ IS  IT  ALL  IN  VAIN  ? ” 70 

XXV.  LADY  ALICE 72 

XXVI.  TIIERANIA 75 

XXVII.  WAYCONNELL  TOWER 77 

XXVIII.  THE  WITCH  BRIDE 79 

XXIX.  SPRING  IS  COME 80 

XXX.  THE  MESSENGER 82 

XXXI.  AUTUMNAL  SONNET 84 

The  Music-Master — a love  story 87 

Day  and  Night  Songs  — Second  Series:  — 

i.  the  choice 141 

II.  AEOLIAN  HARP  — “ WHATSIS  IT  THAT 

IS  GONE?” 144 

III.  THE  PILOT’S  PRETTY  DAUGHTER.  . . . 146 

IV.  TO  THE  CICADA 150 

V.  THE  COLD  WEDDING 152 

VI.  ON  A FORENOON  OF  SPRING 155 

VII.  THE  THREE  FLOWERS 156 

VIII.  IN  THE  DUSK.  158 

IX.  ST.  MARGARET’S  EVE 160 

X.  AN  AUTUMN  EVENING 163  v 

XI.  ALOLIAN  HARP  — “o  PALE  GREEN 

SEA!” 167 

XII.  THE  GIRL’S  lamentation 169 

XIII.  WISHING 173 

XIV.  THE  SAILOR 175 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

XV.  THE  LULLABY 178 

XYI.  OUR  MOUNTAIN 179 

XVII.  MORNING  PLUNGE . . 184 

XVIII.  THE  BIRD 186 

XIX.  A BOY’S  BURIAL 188 

XX.  ON  THE  SUNNY  SHORE 190 

XXI.  THE  NOBLEMAN’S  WEDDING 191 

xxii.  “would  i knew!” 194 

XXIII.  BY  THE  MORNING  SEA 196 

XXIV.  THE  MAIDS  OF  ELFIN-MERE 198 

XXV.  A VALENTINE 200 

XXVI.  UNDER  THE  GRASS 202 

xxvii.  nanny’s  sailor  lad 205 

XXVIII.  FROST  IN  THE  HOLIDAYS 207 

XXIX.  DEATH  DEPOSED 211 

XXX.  ON  THE  TWILIGHT  POND 213 


George  Levison;  or,  The  Schoolfellows 214 

The  Mowers .* 226 

Abbey  Assaroe 228 

Among  the  Heather 231 

Every  Day 233 

Nightwind '. 236 

Sir  Marmaduke  Pole 237 

Autumn  Landscape 241 

Robin  Redbreast 242 


X 


CONTENTS. 


PAQH 

Angela 244 

Song 247 

Dogmatism 248 

Down  on  the  Shore.* 249 

Fairy  Dialogue 251 

The  Winding  Banks  of  Erne 259 

Sunday  Bells 266 

The  Queen  of  the  Forest 268 

Mea  Culpa 270 

To  the  Nightingales 272 

“These  little  Songs” 275 


DAY  AND  NIGHT  SONG 


TO  MY  FRIENDS,  KNOWN  AND  UNKNOWN. 


POEMS. 


L 


THE  TOUCHSTONE. 

A Man  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell, 
Bearing  a Touchstone  in  his  hand ; 

And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 
By  its  unerring  spell. 

Quick  birth  of  transmutation  smote 
The  fair  to  foul,  the  foul  to  fair ; 

Purple  nor  ermine  did  he  spare, 

Nor  scorn  the  dusty  coat. 

Of  heir-loom  jewels,  prized  so  much, 

Were  many  changed  to  chips  and*  clods, 
And  even  statues  of  the  Gods 
Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 


It) 


THE  TOUCHSTONE. 


Then  angrily  the  people  cried, 

“ The  loss  outweighs  the  profit  far ; 

Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are ; 

We  will  not  have  them  tried.” 

And  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  his  unrelenting  quest, 

They  seized  him,  saying  — “ Let  him  test 
How  real  is  our  jail ! ” 

But,  though  they  slew  him  with  the  sword, 
And  in  a fire  his  Touchstone  burn’d, 

Its  doings  could  not  be  o’erturn’d, 

Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm, 

They  strew’d  its  ashes  on  the  breeze  ; 
They  little  guess’d  each  grain  of  these 
Convey’d  the  perfect  charm. 


n. 


EYEY. 

Bud  and  leaflet,  opening  slowly, 

Woo’d  with  tears  by  winds  of  Spring, 

Now,  of  June  persuaded  wholly, 

Perfumes,  flow’rs,  and  shadows  bring. 

Evey,  in  the  linden  alley, 

All  alone  I met  to-day, 

Tripping  to  the  sunny  valley 

Spread  across  with  new-mown  hay. 

Brown  her  soft  curls,  sunbeam-sainted, 
Golden  in  the  wavering  flush  ; 

Darker  brown  her  eyes  are,  painted 
Eye  and  fringe  with  one  soft  brush. 

Through  the  leaves  a careless  comer, 
Never  nymph  of  fount  or  tree 

Could  have  press’d  the  floor  of  summer 
With  a lighter  foot  than  she. 


18 


EVEY. 


» 


Can  this  broad  hat,  fasten’d  under 
With  a bright  blue  ribbon’s  flow, 
Change  my  pet  so  much,  I wonder, 
Of  a month  or  two  ago  ? 


Half  too  changed  to  speak  I thought  her, 
Till  the  pictured  silence  broke, 

Sweet  and  clear  as  dropping  water, 

Into  words  she  sung  or  spoke. 

Few  her  words  ; yet,  like  a sister, 
Trustfully  she  look’d  and  smiled ; 

’Twas  but  in  my  soul  I kiss’d  her 
As  I used  to  kiss  the  child. 

Shadows,  which  are  not  of  sadness, 
Touch  her  eyes,  and  brow  above. 

As  pale  wild-roses  dream  of  redness, 
Dreams  her  innocent  heart  of  love. 


* 


m 

WINDLASS  SONG. 

Heave  at  the  windlass  ! — Heave  O,  cheerly, 
men ! 

Heave  all  at  once,  with  a will ! 

The  tide’s  quickly  making, 

Our  cordage  is  creaking, 

The  water  has  put  on  a frill, 

Heave  O ! 

Fare  you  well,  sweethearts  ! — Heave  O,  cheerly, 
men  ! 

Shore  gambarado  and  sport ! 

The  good  ship  all  ready, 

Each  dog-vane  is  steady, 

The  wind  blowing  dead  out  of  port, 

Heave  O! 

Once  in  blue  water  — Heave  O,  cheerly,  men  ! 
Blow  it  from  north  or  from  south ; 


20 


WINDLASS  SONG. 


She’ll  stand  to  it  tightly, 

And  curtsey  politely, 

And  carry  a bone  in  her  mouth, 

Heave  O ! 

Short  cruise  or  long  cruise  — Heave  O,  cheerly, 
men ! 

Jolly  Jack  Tar  thinks  it  one. 

No  latitude  dreads  he 
Of  White,  Black,  or  Red  Sea, 

Great  ice-bergs,  or  tropical  sun, 

Heave  O ! 

One  other  turn,  and  Heave  O,  cheerly,  men  ! 
Heave,  and  good-bye  to  the  shore  ! 

Our  money,  how  went  it  ? 

We  shared  it  and  spent  it ; 

Next  year  we’ll  come  back  with  some  more, 
Heave  O ! 


1Y. 


VENUS  OF  THE  NEEDLE. 

O Makyanne,  you  pretty  girl, 

( Intent  on  silky  labour, 

Of  sempstresses  the  pink  and  pearl, 
Excuse  a peeping  neighbour  ! 

Those  eyes,  for  ever  drooping,  give 
The  long  brown  lashes  rarely ; 

But  violets  in  the  shadows  live,  — 

For  once  unveil  them  fairly. 

Hast  thou  not  lent  that  flounce  enough 
Of  looks  so  long  and  earnest  ? 

Lo,  here’s  more  “ penetrable  stuff,” 

To  which  thou  never  turnest. 

Ye  graceful  fingers,  deftly  sped  ! 

How  slender,  and  how  nimble  ! 


22 


VENUS  OF  THE  NEEDLE. 


0 might  I wind  their  skeins  of  thread, 

Or  but  pick  up  their  thimble  ! 

How  blest  the  youth  whom  love  shall  bring, 
And  happy  stars  embolden, 

To  change  the  dome  into  a ring, 

The  silver  into  golden  ! 

Who’ll  steal  some  morning  to  her  side 
To  take  her  finger’s  measure, 

While  Maryanne  pretends  to  chide, 

And  blushes  deep  with  pleasure. 

Who’ll  watch  her  sew  her  wedding-gown, 
Well  conscious  that  it  is  hers ; 

Who’ll  glean  a tress,  without  a frown, 

With  those  so  ready  scissors. 

Who’ll  taste  those  ripenings  of  the  south, 
The  fragrant  and  delicious  — 

Don’t  put  the  pins  into  your  mouth, 

O Maryanne,  my  precious ! 

1 almost  wish  it  were  my  trust 
To  teach  how  shocking  that  is ; 


VENUS  OF  THE  xSEEDLE. 


23 


I wish  I had  not,  as  I must, 

To  quit  this  tempting  lattice. 

Sure  aim  takes  Cupid,  fluttering  foe, 
Across  a street  so  narrow  ; 

A thread  of  silk  to  string  his  bow, 

A needle  for  his  arrow  ! 


y. 


THE  FISHERMAN. 

BY  GOETHE. 

The  water  gushed,  the  water  swell’d 
A Fisherman  sat  by, 

Watching  the  angle  that  he  held, 
With  peaceful  heart  and  eye. 

And  as  he  gazed  in  listless  mood, 
The  polish’d  water  surged  ; 

And,  dripping  from  the  cloven  flood, 
A woman’s  form  emerged. 

She  sung  to  him,  she  spake  to  him : 

“ Why  lure  my  brood  away, 

By  human  skill,  and  human  fraud, 
Up  to  the  burning  day  ? 

Oh,  happy  live  the  little  fish ! 

So  happy — mightst  thou  know, 
This  moment  ’twere  thine  only  wish 
To  come  to  us  below. 


THE  FISHERMAN. 


25 


“ Finds  not  the  Sun  a resting-place  ; 

The  Moon,  within  the  mere  ? 

Uplifts  not  each  a radiant  face, 

Grown  doubly  bright,  and  clear  ? 
Persuade  thee  not  these  heav’ns  so  deep  ?* 
This  moist,  embracing  blue  ? 

Thy  features,  lo  ! that  swim  and  sleep 
In  soft  eternal  dew  ? ” 

The  water  gush’d,  the  water  swell’d, 

It  kiss’d  his  naked  feet ; 

Deep  longing  all  his  heart  imped’d, 

As  when  our  love  we  meet. 

She  spake  to  him,  she  sung  to  him  ; 

No  help  could  come  between  ; 

Half  drew  she  him,  half  sank  he  in, 

And  never  more  was  seen. 


iEOLIAN  HARP. 


What  saith  the  river  to  the  rushes  grey, 

Rushes  sadly  bending, 

River  slowly  wending  ? 

Who  can  tell  the  whisper’d  things  they  say  ? 
Youth,  and  prime,  and  life,  and  time, 

For  ever,  ever  fled  away  ! 

Drop  your  wither’d  garlands  in  the  stream, 

Low  autumnal  branches, 

Round  the  skiff  that  launches 
Wavering  downward  through  the  lands  of  dream 
Ever,  ever  fled  away ! 

This  the  burden,  this  the  theme. 

What  saith  the  river  to  the  rushes  grey, 

Rushes  sadly  bending, 

River  slowly  wending  ? 

It  is  near  the  closing  of  the  day. 


uEOLIAN  HARP. 


27 


Near  the  night.  Life  and  light 
For  ever,  ever  fled  away  ! 

Draw  him  tideward  down ; but  not  in  haste. 
Mouldering  daylight  lingers ; 

Night  with  her  cold  fingers 
Sprinkles  moonbeams  on  the  dim  sea-waste. 
Ever,  ever  fled  away ! 

Vainly  cherish’d!  vainly  chased! 

What  saith  the  river  to  the  rushes  grey, 
Rushes  sadly  bending, 

River  slowly  wending  ? 

Where  in  darkest  glooms  his  bed  we  lay, 

Up  the  cave  moans  the  wave, 

For  ever,  ever,  ever  fled  away  1 


VII. 


OH!  WERE  MY  LOVE. 

Oh  ! were  my  Love  a country  lass, 

That  I might  see  her  every  day  ; 

And  sit  with  her  on  hedgerow  grass 
Beneath  a bough  of  may  ; 

And  find  her  cattle  when  astray, 

Or  help  to  drive  them  to  the  field, 
And  linger  on  our  homeward  way, 

And  woo  her  lips  to  yield 
A twilight  kiss  before  we  parted, 

Full  of  love,  yet  easy-hearted. 

Oh  ! were  my  Love  a cottage  maid, 

To  spin  through  many  a winter  night, 
Where  ingle-corner  lends  its  shade 
From  fir-wood  blazing  bright. 

Beside  her  wheel  what  dear  delight 
To  watch  the  blushes  go  and  come 
With  tender  words,  that  took  no  fright 
Beneath  the  friendly  hum  ; 


OH  ! WERE  MY  LOVE. 


29 


Or  rising  smile,  or  tear-drop  swelling, 

At  a fireside  legend’s  telling. 

Oh  ! were  my  Love  a peasant  girl, 

That  never  saw  the  wicked  town ; 

Was  never  dight  with  silk  or  pearl, 

But  graced  a homely  gown. 

How  less  than  weak  were  fashion’s  frown 
To  vex  our  unambitious  lot ; 

How  rich  were  love  and  peace  to  crown 
Our  green  secluded  cot ; 

Where  Age  would  come  serene  and  shining, 
Like  an  autumn  day’s  declining  ! 


VHI. 


THE  FAIRIES. 

A child’s  song. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 

We  daren’t  go  a-hunting 
For  fear  of  little  men  ; 

Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 

Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl’s  feather  ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 
Some  make  their  home, 

They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 
Of  yellow  tide-foam ; 

Some  in  the  reeds 
Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 
With  ffftgs  for  their  watch-dogs, 
All  night  awake. 


THE  FAIRIES. 


31 


High  on  the  hill-top 
The  old  King  sits  ; 

He  is  now  so  old  and  grey 
He’s  nigh  lost  his  wits. 

With  a bridge  of  white  mist 
Columbkill  he  crosses, 

On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses  ; 

Or  going  up  with  music 
On  cold  starry  nights, 

To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 
For  seven  years  long; 

When  she  came  down  again 
Her  friends  were  all  gone. 

They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow, 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 
But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 

They  have  kept  her  ever  since 
Deep  within  the  lakes, 

On  a bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 


32 


THE  FAIRIES. 


By  the  craggy  hill-side, 
Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 
For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 
As  dig  one  up  in  spite, 

He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 
In  his  bed  at  night. 


Up  the  airy  mountain, 
Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren’t  go  a-hunting 
For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 
Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl’s  feather  ! 


IX. 


THE  KUINED  CHAPEL. 

By  the  shore,  a plot  of  ground 
Clips  a ruin’d  chapel  round, 

Buttress’d  with  a grassy  mound  ; 

Where  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by, 
And  bring  no  touch  of  human  sound. 

Washing  of  the  lonely  seas, 

Shaking  of  the  guardian  trees, 

Piping  of  the  salted  breeze  ; 

Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by 
To  the  endless  tune  of  these. 

Or  when,  as  winds  and  waters  keep 
A hush  more  dead  than  any  sleep, 
Stilhmorns  to  stiller  evenings  creep, 

And  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by ; 
Here  the  silence  is  most  deep. 

3 


34 


THE  RUINED  CHAPEL. 


The  empty  ruins,  lapsed  again 
Into  Nature’s  wide  domain, 

Sow  themselves  with  seed  and  grain 
As  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by  ; 
And  hoard  June’s  sun  and  April’s  rain. 

Here  fresh  funeral  tears  were  shed ; 
And  now  the  graves  are  also  dead ; 

And  suckers  from  the  ash-tree  spread, 
While  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by 
And  stars  move  calmly  overhead. 


X. 


A DREAM. 

I heard  the  dogs  howl  in  the  moonlight  night, 
And  I went  to  the  window  to  see  the  sight ; 

All  the  dead  that  ever  I knew 
Going  one  by  one  and  two  by  two. 

On  they  pass’d,  and  on  they  pass’d ; 
Townsfellows  all  from  first  to  last ; 

Born  in  the  moonlight  of  the  lane, 

And  quench’d  in  the  heavy  shadow  again. 

Schoolmates,  marching  as  when  we  play’d 
At  soldiers  once  — but  now  more  staid  ; 

Those  were  the  strangest  sight  to  me 
Who  were  drown’d,  I knew,  in  the  awful  sea. 

Straight  and  handsome  folk ; bent  and  weak  too 
And  some  that  I loved,  and  gasp’d  to  speak  to ; 
Some  but  a day  in  their  churchyard  bed  ; 

And  some  that  I had  not  known  were  dead. 


36 


A DREAM. 


A long,  long  crowd — where  each  seem’d  lonely. 
And  yet  of  them  all  there  was  one,  one  only, 
That  raised  a head,  or  look’d  my  way  ; 

And  she  seem’d  to  linger,  but  might  not  stay. 

How  long  since  I saw  that  fair  pale  face  ! 

Ah,  mother  dear,  might  I only  place 
My  head  on  thy  breast,  a moment  to  rest, 

While  thy  hand  on  my  tearful  cheek  were  prest  1 

On,  on,  a moving  bridge  they  made 
Across  the  moon-stream,  from  shade  to  shade ; 
Young  and  old,  women  and  men  ; 

Many  long-forgot,  but  remember’d  then. 

And  first  there  came  a bitter  laughter ; 

And  a sound  of  tears  a moment  after ; 

And  then  a music  so  lofty  and  gay, 

That  every  morning,  day  by  day, 

I strive  to  recall  it  if  I may. 


XI. 


“ LEY  AVI  OCULOS.” 

In  trouble  for  my  sin,  I cried  to  God  ; 

To  the  Great  God  who  dwelleth  in  the  deeps. 
The  deeps  return  not  any  voice  or  sign. 

But  with  my  soul  I know  thee,  O Great  God  ; 
The  soul  thou  givest  knoweth  thee,  Great  God ; 
And  with  my  soul  I sorrow  for  my  sin. 

Full  sure  I am  there  is  no  joy  in  sin, 
Joy-scented  Peace  is  trampled  under  foot, 

Like  a white  growing  blossom  into  mud. 

Sin  is  establish’d  subtly  in  the  heart 
As  a disease ; like  a magician  foul 
Ruleth  the  better  thoughts  against  their  will. 

Only  the  rays  of  God  can  cure  the  heart, 

Purge  it  of  evil : there’s  no  other  way 
Except  to  turn  with  the  whole  heart  to  God. 


38 


LEVA VI  OCULOS. 


In  heavenly  sunlight  live  no  shades  of  fear ; 

The  soul  there,  busy  or  at  rest,  hath  peace ; 
And  music  floweth  from  the  various  world. 

The  Lord  is  great  and  good,  and  is  our  God. 
There  needeth  not  a word  but  only  these  ; 

Our  God  is  good,  our  God  is  great.  ’Tis  well. 

All  things  are  ever  God’s ; the  shows  of  things 
Are  of  men’s  fantasy,  and  warp’d  with  sin  ; 

God,  and  the  things  of  God,  immutable. 

O great  good  God,  my  pray’r  is  to  neglect 

The  shows  of  fantasy,  and  turn  myself 

To  thy  unfenced,  unbounded  warmth  and  light ! 

Then  were  all  shows  of  things  a part  of  truth  : 
Then  were  my  soul,  if  busy  or  at  rest, 

Residing  in  the  house  of  perfect  peace ! 


XII. 


CROSS-EXAMINATION. 

What  knowest  thou  of  this  eternal  code  ? 

As  much  as  God  intended  to  display. 

Wilt  thou  affirm  thou  knowest  aught  of  God  ? 

Nor  save  his  works,  that  creature  ever  may. 

Is  not  thy  life  at  times  a weary  load  ? 

Which  aimless  on  my  back  he  would  not  lay. 

Is  it  all  good  the  conscience  doth  forbode  ? 

The  deepest  thought  doth  least  my  soul  affray. 

When  hath  a glimpse  of  Heav’n  been  ever  show’d  ? 
Whilst  walking  straight,  I never  miss  its  ray. 

Why  should  such  destiny  to  thee  be  owed  ? 

Easy  alike  to  him  are  yea  and  nay. 


40 


CROSS-EXAMINATION. 


Why  shouldst  thou  reach  it  by  so  mean  a road  ? 
Ask  that  of  him  who  set  us  in  the  way. 

Art  thou  more  living  than  a finch  or  toad  ? 

Is  soul  sheer  waste,  if  we  be  such  as  they  ? 

Thou  never  wilt  prevail  to  loose  the  node. 

If  so,  ’twere  loss  of  labour  to  essay. 

Nor  to  uproot  these  doubts  so  thickly  sow’d. 
Nor  thou  these  deeplier-rooted  hopes  to  slay. 


XIII. 


THE  CUPIDS. 

i. 

In  a grove  I saw  one  day 
A flight  of  Cupids  all  at  play, 

Flitting  bird-like  through  the  air, 

Or  alighting  here  and  there, 

Making  every  bough  rejoice 
With  a most  celestial  voice, 

Or  amongst  the  blossoms  found 
Rolling  on  the  swarded  ground. 

Some  there  were  with  wings  of  blue, 
Other  some,  of  rosy  hue, 

Here,  one  plumed  with  purest  white, 
There,  as  dyed  in  golden  light ; 
Crimson  some,  and  some  I saw 
Colour'd  like  a gay  macaw. 

Many  were  the  Queen  of  Beauty  s — 
Many  bound  to  other  duties. 


THE  CUPIDS. 


II. 

A band  of  fowlers  next  I spied, 
Spreading  nets  on  every  side, 
Watching  long,  by  skill  or  hap 
Fleeting  Cupids  to  entrap. 

But  if  one  at  length  was  ta’en, 
After  mickle  time  and  pain, 
Whether  golden  one  or  blue, 
Piebald,  or  of  rosy  hue, 

When  they  put  him  in  their  cage 
He  grew  meagre  as  with  age, 
Plumage  rumpled,  colour  coarse, 
Voice  unfrequent,  sad,  and  hoarse  ; 
And  little  pleasure  had  they  in  him 
Who  had  spent  the  day  to  win  him. 


XIV. 


LOVELY  MARY  DOFNELLY. 

( To  an  Irish  Tune.) 

Oh,  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it's  you  J love  the 
best ! 

If  fifty  girls  were  round  you  I’d  hardly  see  the 
rest. 

Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the  place  be  where 
it  will, 

Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom  before 
me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that’s  flowing  on  a 
rock, 

How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are  ! and  they 
give  me  many  a shock. 

Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine  and  wetted  with  a 
show’r, 

Could  ne’er  express  the  charming  b’p  that  has  me 
in  its  pow’r. 


44 


LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY. 


Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome,  her  eyebrows 
lifted  up, 

Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth  like  a 
china  cup, 

Her  hair’s  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty  and  so 
fine ; 

It’s  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gather’d  in  a 
twine. 

The  dance  o’  last  Whit-Monday  night  exceeded 
all  before ; 

No  pretty  girl  for  miles  about  was  missing  from  the 
floor; 

But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  love,  and  O but  she  was 

gay! 

She  danced  a jig,  she  sung  a song,  that  took  my 
heart  away. 

When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps  were  so 
complete, 

The  music  nearly  kill’d  itself  to  listen  to  her 
feet ; 

The  fiddler  moan’d  his  blindness,  he  heard  her  so 
much  praised, 

But  bless’d  himself  he  wasn’t  deaf  when  once  her 
voice  she  raised. 


LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY. 


45 


And  evermore  I’m  whistling  or  lilting  what  you 
sung, 

Your  smile  is  always  in  my  heart,  your  name 
beside  my  tongue ; 

But  you’ve  as  many  sweethearts  as  you’d  count  on 
both  your  hands, 

And  for  myself  there’s  not  a thumb  or  little  finger 
stands. 

Oh,  you’re  the  flower  o’  womankind  in  country  or 
in  town ; 

The  higher  I exalt  you,  the  lower  I’m  cast  down. 

If  some  great  lord  should  come  this  way,  and  see 
your  beauty  bright, 

And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I’d  own  it  was  but  right. 

O might  we  live  together  in  a lofty  palace  hall, 

Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scarlet  cur- 
tains fall ! 

O might  we  live  together  in  a cottage  mean  and 
small ; 

With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud  the  only 
wall! 

O lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty’s  my  dis- 
tress. 


46 


LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY. 


It’s  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I’ll  never  wish 
it  less. 

The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and  I am 
poor  and  low ; 

But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever  you  may 
go! 


XV. 


SONNET. 

IN  A SPRING  GROVE. 

Here  the  white-ray’d  anemone  is  born, 
Wood-sorrel,  and  the  varnish’d  buttercup ; 

And  primrose  in  its  purfled  green  swathed  up, 
Pallid  and  sweet  round  every  budding  thorn, 

Grey  ash,  and  beech  with  rusty  leaves  outworn. 
Here,  too,  the  darting  linnet  has  her  nest 
In  the  blue-lustre d holly,  never  shorn, 

Whose  partner  cheers  her  little  brooding  breast, 
Piping'  from  some  near  bough.  O simple  song  ! 

O cistern  deep  of  that  harmonious  rillet, 

And  these  fair  juicy  stems  that  climb  and  throng 
The  vernal  world,  and  unexhausted  seas 
Of  flowing  life,  and  soul  that  asks  to  fill  it, 

Each  and  all  these,  — and  more,  and  more  than 
these ! 


XVI. 


SERENADE. 

Oh,  hearing  sleep,  and  sleeping  hear, 
The  while  we  dare  to  call  thee  dear, 

So  may  thy  dreams  be  good,  although 
The  loving  power  thou  canst  not  know  ! 
As  music  parts  the  silence,  lo  ! 

Through  heav’n  the  stars  begin  to  peep, 
To  comfort  us  that  darkling  pine 
Because  those  fairer  lights  of  thine 
Have  set  into  the  Sea  of  Sleep. 

Yet  closed  still  thine  eyelids  keep  ; 

And  may  our  voices  through  the  sphere 
Of  Dreamland  yet  more  softly  rise 
Than  up  these  shadowy  rural  dells, 
Where  bashful  Echo  sleeping  dwells, 
And  touch  thy  spirit  to  as  soft  replies. 
Let  peace  from  gentle  guardian  skies, 
Till  watches  of  the  dark  be  worn, 
Surround  thy  bed,  — a joyous  morn 


SERENADE. 


49 


Make  all  the  chamber  rosy,  bright ! 
Good-night!  — From  far-off  fields  is  borne 
The  drowsy  Echo’s  faint  “ Good-night,”  — 
Good-night ! Good-night ! 


4 


xvrt. 


THE  DIRTY  OLD  MAN. 

A LAY  OF  LEADENHALL. 

In  a dirty  old  house  lived  a Dirty  Old  Man  ; 

Soap,  towels,'  or  brushes  were  not  in  his  plan. 

For  forty  long  years,  as  the  neighbours  declared, 
His  house  never  once  had  been  clean’d  or  repair’d. 

’Twas  a scandal  and  shame  to  the  business-like 
street, 

One  terrible  blot  in  a ledger  so  neat : 

The  shop  full  of  hardware,  but  black  as  a hearse, 
And  the  rest  of  the  mansion  a thousand  times 
worse. 

Outside,  the  old  plaster,  all  spatter  and  stain, 
Looked  spotty  in  sunshine  and  streaky  in  rain ; 

The  window-sills  sprouted  with  mildewy  grass, 

And  the  panes  from  being  broken  were  known  to 
be  glass. 


THE  DIRTY  OLD  MAN. 


51 


On  the  ricketty  signboard  no  learning  could  spell 
The  merchant  who  sold,  or  the  goods  he’d  to  sell ; 
But  for  house  and  for  man  & new  title  took  growth, 
Like  a fungus,  — the  Dirt  gave  its  name  to  them 
both. 

Within,  there  were  carpets  and  cushions  of  dust, 
The  wood  was  half  rot,  and  the  metal  half  rust, 

Old  curtains,  half  cobwebs,  hung  grimly  aloof ; 
’Twas  a Spiders’  Elysium  from  cellar  to  roof. 

There,  king  of  the  spiders,  the  Dirty  Old  Man 
Lives  busy  and  dirty  as  ever  he  can  ; 

With  dirt  on  his  fingers  and  dirt  on  his  face, 

For  the  Dirty  Old  Man  thinks  the  dirt  no  dis- 
grace. 

From  his  wig  to  his  shoes,  from  his  coat  to  his 
shirt, 

His  clothes  are  a proverb,  a marvel  of  dirt ; 

The  dirt  is  pervading,  unfading,  exceeding,  — 

Yet  the  Dirty  Old  Man  has  both  learning  and 
breeding. 

Fine  dames  from  their  Carriages,  noble  and  fair, 
Have  entered  his  shop,  less  to  buy  than  to  stare  ; 


52  * 


THE  DIRTY  OLD  MAN. 


And  have  afterwards  said,  though  the  dirt  was  so 
frightful, 

The  Dirty  Man’s  manners  were  truly  delightful. 

Upstairs  might  they  yenture,  in  dirt  and  in  gloom, 

To  peep  at  the  door  of  the  wonderful  room 

Such  stories  are  told  about,  none  of  them  true  ! — 

The  keyhole  itself  has  no  mortal  seen  through. 

That  room  — forty  years  since,  folk  settled  and 
deck’d  it 

The  luncheon’s  prepared,  and  the  guests  are  ex- 
pected. 

The  handsome  young  host  he  is  gallant  and  gay, 

For  his  love  and  her  friends  will  be  with  him  to- 
day. 

With  solid  and  dainty  the  table  is  drest, 

The  wine  beams  its  brightest,  the  flowers  bloom 
their  best ; 

Yet  the  host  need  not  smile,  and  no  guests  will  ap- 
pear, 

For  his  sweetheart  is  dead,  as  he  shortly  shall  hear. 

Full  forty  years  since,  turn’d  the  key  in  that  door. 

’Tis  a room  deaf  and  dumb  ’mid  the  city’s  uproar. 


THE  DIRTY  OLD  MAN. 


53 


The  guests,  for  whose  joyance  that  table  was 
spread, 

May  now  enter  as  ghosts,  for  they’re  every  one 
dead. 

Through  a chink  in  the  shutter  dim  lights  come 
and  go ; 

The  seats  are  in  order,  the  dishes  a-row ; 

But  the  luncheon  was  wealth  to  the  rat  and  the 
mouse 

Whose  descendants  have  long  left  the  Dirty  Old 
House. 

Cup  and  platter  are  mask’d  in  thick  layers  of 
dust ; 

The  flowers  fall’n  to  powder,  the  wine  swath’d  in 
crust ; 

A nosegay  was  laid  before  one  special  chair, 

And  the  faded  blue  ribbon  that  bound  it  lies 
there. 

The  old  man  has  play’d  out  bis  parts  in  the  scene. 

Wherever  he  now  is,  I hope  he’s  more  clean. 

Yet  give  we  a thought  free  of  scoffing  or  ban 

To  that  Dirty  Old  House  and  that  Dirty  Old 
Man. 


54 


THE  DIRTY  OLD  MAN. 


[A  singular  man,  named  Nathaniel  Bentley,  for  many 
years  kept  a large  hardware  shop  in  Leadenhall-street, 
London.  He  was  best  known  as  Dirty  Dick  (Dick,  for 
alliteration’s  sake,  probably),  and  his  place  of  business  as 
the  Dirty  Warehouse.  He  died  about  the  year  1809. 
These  verses  accord  with  the  accounts  respecting  himself 
and  his  house.] 


XVIII. 


THE  BRIGHT  LITTLE  GIRL. 

( To  an  Irish  Tune.) 

Her  blue  eyes  they  beam  and  they  twinkle, 
Her  lips  have  made  smiling  more  fair ; 

On  cheek  and  on  brow  there’s  no  wrinkle, 
But  thousands  of  curls  in  her  hair. 

She’s  little,  — you  don’t  wish  her  taller ; 

Just  half  through  the  teens  is  her  age  ; 
And  baby  or  lady  to  call  her, 

Were  something  to  puzzle  a sage ! 

Her  walk  is  far  better  than  dancing  ; 

She  speaks  as  another  might  sing ; 

And  all  by  an  innocent  chancing, 

Like  lambkins  and  birds  in  the  spring. 

Unskill’d  in  the  airs  of  the  city, 

She’s  perfect  in  natural  grace ; 


56 


THE  BRIGHT  LITTLE  GIRL. 


She’s  gentle,  and  truthful,  and  witty, 

And  ne’er  spends  a thought  on  her  face. 

Her  face,  with  the  fine  glow  that’s  in  it, 

As  fresh  as  an  apple-tree  bloom  — 

And  O ! when  she  comes,  in  a minute, 
Like  sunbeams  she  brightens  the  room. 

As  taking  in  mind  as  in  feature, 

How  many  will  sigh  for  her  sake ! 

— I wonder^  the  sweet  little  creature, 
What  sort  of  a wife  she  would  make. 


XIX. 


THE  WAYSIDE  WELL. 

Greet  thee  kindly,  Wayside  Well, 
In  thy  hedge  of  roses ! 

Whither  drawn  by  soothing  spell, 
Weary  foot  reposes. 

With  a welcome  fresh  and  green 
Wave  thy  border  grasses, 

By  the  dusty  traveller  seen, 

Sighing  as  he  passes. 

Cup  of  no  Circean  bliss, 

Charity  of  summer, 

Making  happy  with  a kiss 
Every  meanest  comer ! 

Morning,  too,  and  eventide, 
Without  stint  or  measure, 

Cottage  households  near  and  wide 
Share  tl  v liquid  treasure. 


58 


THE  WAYSIDE  WELL. 


Fair  the  greeting  face  ascends, 

Like  a naiad  daughter, 

When  the  peasant  lassie  bends 
To  thy  trembling  water. 

When  a laddie  brings  her  pail 
Down  the  twilight  meadow, 

Tender  falls  the  whisper’d  tale, 

Soft  the  double  shadow ! 

Clear  as  childhood  in  thy  look, 
Nature  seems  to  pet  thee ; 

Fierce  July  that  drains  the  brook 
Hath  no  power  to  fret  thee. 

Shelter’d  cool  and  free  from  smirch 
In  thy  cavelet  shady, 

O’er  thee  in  a silver  birch 
Stoops  a forest  lady. 

To  thy  glass  the  Star  of  Eve 
Shyly  dares  to  bend  her ; 

Matron  Moon  thy  depths  receive, 
Globed  in  mellow  splendour. 

Bounteous  Spring ! for  ever  own 
Undisturb’d  thy  station ; 


THE  WAYSIDE  WELL. 


59 


Not  to  thirsty  lips  alone 
Serving  mild  donation. 

Never  come  the  newt  or  frog, 
Pebble  thrown  in  malice, 

Mud  or  wither’d  leaves,  to  clog 
Or  defile  thy  chalice. 

Heaven  be  still  within  thy  ken, 
Through  the  veil  thou  wearest,— 
Glimpsing  clearest,  as  with  men, 
When  the  boughs  are  barest ! 


XX. 


THE  LOVER  AND  BIRDS. 

Within  a budding  grove, 

In  April’s  ear  sang  every  bird  his  best, 

But  not  a song  to  pleasure  my  unrest, 

Or  touch  the  tears  unwept  of  bitter  love. 

Some  spake,  methought,  with  pity,  some  as  if  in 
jest. 

To  every  word 
Of  every  bird 

I listen’d,  and  replied  as  it  behove. 

Scream’d  Chaffinch,  “ Sweet,  sweet,  sweet ! 
O- bring  my  pretty  love  to  meet  me  here  ! ” 

“ Chaffinch,”  quoth  I,  “ be  dumb  awhile,  in 
fear 

Thy  darling  prove  no  better  than  a cheat ; 
And  never  come,  or  fly  when  wintry  days  appear.” 
Yet  from  a twig 
With  voice  so  big, 

The  little  fowl  his  utterance  did  repeat. 


THE  LOVER  AND  BIRDS. 


63 


Then  I,  “ the  man  forlorn 
Hears  Earth  send  up  a foolish  noise  aloft.” 

“ And  what’ll  he  do  ? what’ll  he  do  ! ” scoff’d 
The  Blackbird,  standing  in  an  ancient  thorn, 
Then  spread  his  sooty  wings  and  flitted  to  the  croft, 
With  cackling  laugh : 

Whom  I,  being  half 

Enraged,  call’d  after,  giving  back  his  scorn. 

Worse  mock’d  the  Thrush,  “Die  ! die  ! 

O could  he  do  it?  could  he  do  it  ? Nay  ! 

Be  quick ! be  quick ! Here,  here,  here ! ” 
(went  his  lay) 

“ Take  heed  ! take  heed  ! ” then,  “ Why  ? 
why  ? why  ? why  ? why  ? 

See  — ee  now  ! see  — ee  now  ! ” (he  drawl’d) 
“ Back ! back  ! back ! R-r-r-run  away  ! ” 

O Thrush,  be  still ! 

Or,  at  thy  will, 

Seek  some  less  sad  interpreter  than  I ! 

“ Air,  air  ! blue  air  and  white  ! 

Whither  I flee,  whither,  O whither,  O whither 
I flee!” 

(Thus  the  Lark  hurried,  mounting  from  the 
lea) 


62 


THE  LOVER  AND  BIRDS. 


“ Hills,  countries,  many  waters  glittering 
bright, 

Whither  I see,  whither  I see  ! deeper,  deeper, 
deeper,  whither  I see,  see,  see  ! ” 

Gay  Lark,  I said, 

The  song  that’s  bred 

In  happy  nest  may  well  to  heav’n  make  flight. 

u There’s  something,  something  sad, 

I half  remember  ” — piped  a broken  strain. 
Well  sung,  sweet  Robin  ! Robin  sung  again, 

“ Spring’s  opening  cheerily,  cheerily  ! be  we 
glad ! ” 

Which  moved,  I wist  not  why,  me  melancholy  mad, 
Till  now,  grown  meek, 

With  wetted  cheek, 

Most  comforting  and  gentle  thoughts  I had. 


XXL 


THE  MILKMAID. 

(To  the  tune  of  “ It  was  an  old  Beggarman.”) 

O,  where  are  you  going  so  early?  he  said; 
Good  luck  go  with  you,  my  pretty  maid ; 

To  tell  you  my  mind  I’m  half  afraid, 

But  I wish  I were  your  sweetheart. 

When  the  morning  sun  is  shining  low, 
And  the  cocks  in  every  farmyard  crow, 
I’ll  carry  your  pail, 

O’er  hill  and  dale, 

And  I’ll  go  with  you  a-milking. 

I’m  going  a-milking,  sir,  says  she, 

Through  the  dew,  and  across  the  lea ; 

You  ne’er  would  even  yourself  to  me, 

Or  take  me  for  your  sweetheart. 

When  the  morning  sun,  &c. 


64 


THE  MILKMAID. 


Now  give  me  your  milking  stool  awhile, 

To  carry  it  down  to  yonder  stile ; 

I’m  wishing  every  step  a mile, 

And  myself  your  only  sweetheart. 

When  the  morning  sun,  &c. 

O,  here’s  the  stile  in-under  the  tree, 

And  there’s  the  path  in  the  grass  for  me, 
And  I thank  you  kindly,  sir,  says  she, 

And  wish  you  a better  sweetheart. 
When  the  morning  sun,  &c. 

Now  give  me  your  milking-pail,  says  he, 
And  while  we’re  going  across  the  lea, 

Pray  reckon  your  master’s  cows  to  me, 
Although  I’m  not  your  sweetheart. 
When  the  morning  sun,  &c. 

Two  of  them  red,  and  two  of  them  white, 
of  them  yellow  and  silky  bright, 

She  told  him  her  master’s  cows  aright, 
Though  he  was  not  her  sweetheart 
When  the  morning  sun,  &c. 

She  sat  and  milk’d  in  the  morning  sun, 
And  when  her  milking  was  over  and  done, 


THE  MILKMAID. 


65 


She  found  him  waiting,  all  as  one 
As  if  he  were  her  sweetheart. 

When  the  morning  sun,  &c. 

He  freely  offer’d  his  heart  and  hand  ; 

Now  she  has  a farm  at  her  command, 

And  cows  of  her  own  to  graze  the  land  ; 

Success  to  all  true  sweethearts  ! 

When  the  morning  sun  is  shining  low, 
And  the  cocks  in  every  farmyard  crow, 
I’ll  carry  your  pail 
O’er  hill  and  dale, 

And  I’ll  go  with  you  a-milking. 


6 


XXII. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 

The  plunging  storm  flies  fierce  against  the  pane, 
And  thrills  our  cottage  with  redoubled  shocks ; 

The  chimney  mutters  and  the  rafters  strain ; 
Without,  the  breakers  roar  along  the  rocks. 

See,  from  our  fire  and  taper-lighted  room, 

How  savage,  pitiless,  and  uncontroll’d 

The  grim  horizon  shows  its  tossing  gloom 

Of  waves  from  unknown  angry  gulfs  uproll’d ; 

Where,  underneath  that  black  portentous  lid, 

A long  pale  space  between  the  night  and  sea 

fleams  awful ; while  in  deepest  darkness  hid 
All  other  things  in  our  despair  agree. 

But  lo  ! what  star  amid  the  thickest  dark 
A soft  and  unexpected  dawn  has  made  ? 

O welcome  Lighthouse,  thy  unruffled  spark, 
Piercing  the  turmoil  and  the  deathly  shade  I 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 


67 


By  such  a glimpse  o’er  the  distracted  wave 
Full  many  a soul  to-night  is  re-possest 
Of  courage  and  of  order,  strong  to  save ; 

And  like  effect  it  works  within  my  breast. 

Three  faithful  men  have  set  themselves  to  stand 
Against  all  storms  that  from  the  sky  can  blow, 
Where  peril  must  expect  no  aiding  hand, 

And  tedium  no  relief  may  hope  to  know. 

Nor  shout  they,  passing  brothers  to  inform 
What  weariness  they  feel,  or  what  affright ; 

But  tranquilly  in  solitude  and  storm 

Abide  from  month  to  month,  and  show  their  light. 


XXIII. 


THE  VALLEY  STREAM. 

Stream  flowing  swiftly,  what  music  is  thine  ! 

The  breezy  rock-pass,  and  the  storm- wooing  pine, 
Have  taught  thee  their  murmurs, 

Their  wild  mountain  murmurs  ; 

Subdued  in  thy  liquid  response  to  a sound 

Which  aids  the  repose  of  this  pastoral  ground ; 

Where  our  valley  yet  mingles  an  awe  with  the 
love 

It  smiles  to  the  sheltering  bastions  above  ; — 

Thy  cloud-haunted  birthplace, 

O Stream,  flowing  swiftly  ! 

Encircle  our  meadows  with  bounty  and  grace  ; 

Then  move  on  thy  journey  with  tranquiller  pace, 
To  find  the  great  waters, 

The  great  ocean-waters, 

Blue,  wonderful,  boundless  to  vision  or  thought ; — 

Thence,  thence,  might  thy  musical  tidings  be 
brought ! 


THE  VALLEY  STREAM. 


69 


One  waft  of  the  tones  of  the  infinite  sea  ! 

% 

Our  gain  is  but  songs  of  the  mountain  from  thee : 
Thy  primitive  issue, 

Thou  Stream  of  our  valley  ! 

And  have  we  divined  what  is  thunder’d  and  hiss’d, 
Where  the  awful  ledge  glimmers  through  screens 
of  grey  mist, 

And  raves  forth  its  secrets, 

The  heart  of  its  secrets  ? 

Or  learn ’d  what  is  hid  in  thy  whispering  note, 
Mysteriously  gather’d  from  fountains  remote, 
Where  the  solitudes  spread  in  the  upper  sunshine  ? 
O Stream  flowing  swiftly,  what  music  is  thine  ? 
Far-wafted,  prophetic  ? 

Thou  Stream  of  our  valley  ! 


* 


XXIV. 

^OLIAN  HARP. 

Is  it  all  in  vain  ? 

Strangely  throbbing  pain, 
Trembling  joy  of  memory  ! 
Bygone  things,  how  shadowy 
Within  their  graves  they  lie ! 

Shall  I sit  then  by  their  graves, 
Listening  to  the  melancholy  waves  ? 
I would  fain. 

But  even  these  in  vapours  die  : 

For  nothing  may  remain. 

One  survivor  in  a boat 
On  the  wide  dim  deep  afloat} 

When  the  sunken  ship  is  gone, 

Lit  by  late  stars  before  the  dawn. 


JEOLIAN  R Alii . 


71 


The  sea  rolls  vaguely,  and  the  stars  are  dumb. 
The  ship  is  sunk  full  many  a year. 

Dream  no  more  of  loss  or  gain  : 

A ship  was  never  here. 

A dawn  will  never,  never  come. 

— Is  it  all  in  vain  ? 


XXV. 


LADY  ALICE. 


i. 

Now  what  doth  Lady  Alice  so  late  on  the  turret 
stair, 

Without  a lamp  to  light  her,  but  the  diamond  in 
her  hair ; 

When  every  arching  passage  overflows  with  shal- 
low gloom, 

And  dreams  float  through  the  castle,  into  every 
silent  room  ? 

She  trembles  at  her  footsteps,  although  they  fall  so 
light; 

Through  the  turret  loopholes  she  sees  the  wild  mid- 
night ; 

Broken  vapours  streaming  across  the  stormy  sky ; 

Down  the  empty  corridors  the  blast  doth  moan  and 
cry. 


LADY  ALICE. 


73 


She  steals  along  a gallery ; she  pauses  by  a 
door ; 

And  fast  her  tears  are  dropping  down  upon  the 
oaken  floor; 

And  thrice  she  seems  returning  — but  thrice  she 
turns  again : — 

Now  heavy  lie  the  cloud  of  sleep  on  that  old  father’s 
brain  ! 

Oh,  well  it  were  that  never  shouldst  thou  waken 
from  thy  sleep ! 

For  wherefore  should  they  waken,  who  waken  but 
to  weep  ? 

No  more,  no  more  beside  thy  bed  doth  Peace  a 
vigil  keep, 

But  Woe, — a lion  that  awaits  thy  rousing  for  its 
leap. 

ii. 

An  afternoon  of  April,  no  sun  appears  on  high, 

But  a moist  and  yellow  lustre  fills  the  deepness  of 
the  sky  : 

And  through  the  castle-gateway,  left  empty  and 
forlorn, 

Along  the  leafless  avenue  an  honour’d  bier  is 
borne. 


74 


LADY  ALICE. 


They  stop.  The  long  line  closes  up  like  some 
gigantic  worm ; 

A shape  is  standing  in  the  path,  a wan  and  ghost- 
like form, 

Which  gazes  fixedly  ; nor  moves,  nor  utters  any 
sound ; 

Then,  like  a statue  built  of  snow,  sinks  down  upon 
the  ground. 

And  though  her  clothes  are  ragged,  and  though  her 
feet  are  bare, 

And  though  all  wild  and  tangled  falls  her  heavy 
silk-brown  hair ; 

Though  from  her  eyes  the  brightness,  from  her 
cheeks  the  bloom  is  fled, 

They  know  their  Lady  Alice,  the  darling  of  the 
dead. 

With  silence,  in  her  own  old  room  the  fainting 
form  they  lay, 

Where  all  things  stand  unalter’d  since  the  night 
she  fled  away : 

But  who  — but  who  shall  bring  to  life  her  father 
from  the  clay  ? 

But  who  shall  give  her  back  again  her  heart  of  a 
former  day  ? 


XXVI. 


THERANIA. 

O Unknown  Belov’d  One  ! to  the  mellow  season 
Branches  in  the  lawn  make  drooping 
bow’rs ; 

Yase  and  plot  burn  scarlet,  gold,  and  azure ; 
Honeysuckles  wind  the  tall  grey  turret, 

, And  pale  passion-flow’rs. 

Come  thou,  come  thou  to  my  lonely  thought, 

O Unknown  Belov’d  One. 

Now,  at  evening  twilight,  dusky  dew  down-wavers, 
Soft  stars  crown  the  grove-encircled  hill ; 
Breathe  the  new-mown  meadows,  broad  and 
misty ; 

Through  the  heavy  grass  the  rail  is  talking ; 

All  beside  is  still. 

Trace  with  me  the  wandering  avenue, 

O Unknown  Belov’d  One. 


76 


THERANIA. 


In  the  mystic  realm,  and  in  the  time  of  visions, 

I thy  lover  have  no  need  to  woo ; 

There  I hold  thy  hand  in  mine,  thou  dearest, 
And  thy  soul  in  mine,  and  feel  its  throbbing, 
Tender,  deep,  and  true  : 

Then  my  tears  are  love,  and  thine  are  love, 

O Unknown  Belov’d  One ! 

Is  thy  voice  a wavelet  on  the  listening  darkness  ? 
Are  thine  eyes  unfolding  from  their  veil  ? 
Wilt  thou  come  before  the  signs  of  winter  — 
Days  that  shred  the  bough  with  trembling  fingers, 
Nights  that  weep  and  wail  ? 

Art  thou  Love  indeed,  or  art  thou  Death, 

O Unknown  Belov’d  One  ? 


XXVII. 


WAYCONNELL  TOWER. 

The  tangling  wealth  by  June  amass’d, 
Left  rock  and  ruin  vaguely  seen  ; 

Thick  ivy-cables  held  them  fast, 

Light  boughs  descended,  floating  green. 

Slow  turn’d  the  stair,  a breathless  height, 
And,  far  above,  it  set  me  free, 

When  all  the  golden  fan  of  light 
Was  closing  down  into  the  sea. 

A window  half-way  up  the  wall 
It  led  to  ; and  so  high  was  that, 

The  tallest  trees  were  not  so  tall 

That  they  could  reach  to  where  I sat. 

Aloft  within  the  moulder’d  tower, 

Dark  ivy  fringed  its  round  of  sky, 

Where  slowly,  in  the  deepening  hour, 

The  first  few  stars  unveil’d  on  high. 


78 


WAYCONNELL  TOWER. 


The  rustling  of  the  foliage  dim, 

The  murmur  of  the  cool  grey  tide, 
With  tears  that  trembled  on  the  brim, 
An  echo  sad  to  these  I sigh’d. 

O Sea,  thy  ripple’s  mournful  tune  ! — 
The  cloud  along  the  sunset  sleeps ; 
The  phantom  of  the  golden  moon 
Is  kindled  in  thy  quivering  deeps, 

Oh,  mournfully  ! — and  I to  fill, 

Fix’d  in  a ruin-window  strange, 
Some  countless  period,  watching  still 
A moon,  a sea,  that  never  change  ! 

The  guided  orb  is  mounting  slow  ; 

The  duteous  wave  is  ebbing  fast ; 
And  now,  as  from  the  niche  I go, 

A shadow  joins  the  shadowy  past. 

Farewell ! dim  ruins ; tower  and  life  ; 

Sadly  enrich  the  distant  view  ! 

And  welcome,  scenes  of  toil  and  strife 
To-morrow’s  sun  arises  new. 


xxvin. 


THE  WITCH-BRIDE. 

A fair  witch  crept  to  a young  man’s  side, 
And  he  kiss’d  her  and  took  her  for  his  bride. 

But  a Shape  came  in  at  the  dead  of  night, 
And  fill’d  the  room  with  snowy  light. 

And  he  saw  how  in  his  arms  there  lay 
A thing  more  frightful  than  mouth  may  say. 

And  he  rose  in  haste,  and  follow’d  the  Shape 
Till  morning  crown’d  an  eastern  cape. 

And  he  girded  himself  and  follow’d  still, 

When  sunset  sainted  the  western  hill. 

But,  mocking  and  thwarting,  clung  to  his  side, 
Weary  day ! — the  foul  Witch-Bride. 


XXIX. 

SPRING  IS  COME. 

Ye  coax  the  timid  verdure 
Along  the  hills  of  Spring, 

Blue  skies  and  gentle  breezes, 

And  soft  clouds  wandering  1 
The  quire  of  birds  on  budding  spray, 
Loud  larks  in  ether  sing ; 

A fresher  pulse,  a wider  day, 

Give  joy  to  everything. 

The  gay  translucent  morning 
Lies  glittering  on  the  sea, 

The  noonday  sprinkles  shadows 
Athwart  the  daisied  lea ; 

The  round  Sun’s  sinking  scarlet  rim 
In  vapour  hideth  he, 

The  darkling  hours  are  cool  and  dim, 
As  vernal  night  should  be. 


SPRING  IS  COME. 


81 


Our  Earth  has  not  grown  aged, 

With  all  her  countless  years  ; 

She  works,  and  never  wearies, 

Is  glad,  and  nothing  fears  : 

The  glow  of  air,  broad  land  and  wave, 

In  season  re-appears  ; 

And  shall,  when  slumber  in  the  grave 
These  human  smiles  and  tears. 

Oh,  rich  in  songs  and  colours, 

Thou  joy-reviving  Spring ! 

Some  hopes  are  chill’d  with  winter 
Whose  term  thou  canst  not  bring. 

Some  voices  answer  not  thy  call 
When  sky  and  woodland  ring, 

Some  faces  come  not  back  at  all 
With  primrose-blossoming. 

fhe  distant-flying  swallow, 

The  upward-yearning  seed, 

Find  nature’s  promise  faithful, 

Attain  their  humble  meed. 

Great  Parent ! thou  hast  also  form’d 
These  hearts  which  throb  and  bleed ; 

With  love,  truth,  hope,  their  life  hast  warm’d, 
And  what  is  best,  decreed. 


6 


XXX. 


THE  MESSENGER. 

A messenger,  that  stood  beside  my  bed, 

In  words  of  clear  and  cruel  import  said, 

(And  vet  methought  the  tone  was  less  unkind.) 

“ I bring  thee  pain  of  body  and  of  mind.” 

w Each  gift  of  each  must  pay  a toll  to  me  ; 

Nor  flight,  nor  force,  nor  suit  can  set  thee  free ; 
Until  my  brother  come,  I say  not  when  : 
Affliction  is  my  name,  unloved  of  men.” 

I swoon’d,  then  bursting  up  in  talk  deranged, 
Shatter’d  to  tears  ; while  he  stood  by  unchanged. 
I held  my  peace,  my  heart  with  courage  burn  cl, 
And  to  his  cold  touch  one  faint  sigh  return’d. 

Undreamt-of  wings  he  lifted,  “ For  a while 
I vanish.  Never  be  afraid  to  smile 
Lest  I waylay  thee  : curse  me  not ; nay,  love  ; 
That  I may  bring  thee  tidings  from  above.” 


THE  MESSENGER. 


83 


And  often  since,  by  day  or  night,  descends 
The  face  obdurate  ; now  almost  a friend’s. 

O ! quite  to  Faith ; but  Frailty’s  lips  not  dare 
The  word.  To  both  this  angel  taught  a pray’r. 

“ Lord  God,  thy  servant,  wounded  and  bereft, 
Feels  thee  upon  his  right  hand  and  his  left : 
Hath  joy  in  grief,  and  still  by  losing  gains  ; — 
All  this  is  gone,  yet  all  myself  remains  ! ” 


XXXI. 


AUTUMNAL  SONNET. 

Now  Autumn’s  fire  burns  slowly  along  the  woods, 
And  day  by  day  the  dead  leaves  fall  and  melt, 
And  night  by  night  the  monitory  blast 
Wails  in  the  key-hole,  telling  how  it  pass’d 
O’er  empty  fields,  or  upland  solitudes, 

Or  grim  wide  wave  ; and  now  the  power  is  felt 
Of  melancholy,  tenderer  in  its  moods 
Than  any  joy  indulgent  Summer  dealt. 

Dear  friends,  together  in  the  glimmering  eve, 
Pensive  and  glad,  with  tones  that  recognise 
The  soft  invisible  dew  on  each  one’s  eyes, 

It  may  be,  somewhat  thus  we  shall  have  leave 
To  walk  with  memory,  when  distant  lies 
Poor  Earth,  where  we  were  wont  to  live  and  grieve, 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER, 


A LOVE  STORY. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


A LOVE  STORY. 

INSCRIBED  TO  LEIGH  HUNT. 


PART  I. 

I. 

Music  and  Love  ! — If  lovers  hear  me  sing, 

I will  for  them  essay  the  simple  tale, 

To  hold  some  fair  young  listeners  in  a ring 

With  echoes  gather’d  from  an  Irish  vale, 

Where  still,  methinks,  abide  my  golden  years, 

% 

Though  I not  with  them,  — far  discern’d  through 
tears. 

ii. 

When  evening  fell  upon  the  village  street 
And  brother  fields,  reposing  hand  in  hand, 
Unlike  where  flaring  cities  scorn  to  meet 
The  kiss  of  dusk  that  quiets  all  the  land, 


88 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


’Twas  pleasant  laziness  to  loiter  by 
Houses  and  cottages,  a friendly  spy. 

hi. 

And  hear  the  frequent  fiddle  that  would  glide 
Through  jovial  mazes  of  a jig  or  reel, 

• Or  sink  from  sob  to  sob  with  plaintive  slide, 

Or  mount  the  steps  of  swift  exulting  zeaL ; 

For  our  old  village  was  with  music  fill’d 
Like  any  grove  where  thrushes  wont  to  build. 

IV. 

Mixt  with  the  roar  of  bellows  and  of  flame, 
Perhaps  the  reed-voice  of  a clarionet 
From  forge’s  open  ruddy  shutter  came ; 

Or  round  some  hearth  where  silent  people  set, 
Where  the  low  flute,  with  plaintive  quivering,  ran 
on 

Through  “ Colleen  Dhas  ” or  “ Hawk  of  Bally- 
shannon.” 


v. 

Or  pictured  on  those  bygone,  shadowy  nights 
I see  a group  of  girls  at  needlework, 

Placed  round  a candle  throwing  soft  half-lights 
On  the  contrasted  faces,  and  the  dark 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


99 

And  fair-hair’d  heads,  a bunch  of  human  flow’rs ; 
And  many  a ditty  cheers  th’  industrious  hours. 


VI. 

Pianoforte’s  sound  from  curtain’d  pane 
Would  join  the  lofty  to  the  lowly  roof 
With  delicate  links  of  one  harmonious  chain  ; 

And  often  down  the  street  some  Glee’s  old  woof, 
“Hope  of  my  heart” — “Ye  Shepherds” — “ Light- 
ly tread,” 

Would  mesh  my  steps  or  wrap  me  in  my  bed. 

VII. 

The  most  delicious  chance,  if  we  should  hear, 
Pour’d  from  our  climbing  glen’s  enfoliaged  rocks, 
At  dusk  some  solitary  bugle,  clear, 

Remote,  and  melancholy  ; echo  mocks 
The  strain  delighted,  wafting  it  afar 
Up  to  the  threshold  of  the  evening  star. 

VIII. 

And  Gerald  was  our  music-master’s  name  ; 

Young  Gerald  White  ; whose  mother,  not  long 
wed, 

Only  to  make  him  ours  by  birthright  came. 

Her  Requiescat  I have  often  read, 


90 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


Where  thickest  ivy  hangs  its  ancient  pall 
Over  the  dumb  and  desolate  abbey  wall. 


IX. 

The  father  found  a music-pupil  rare, 

More  ready  still  to  learn  than  he  to  teach ; 

His  art  no  longer  was  his  only  care, 

**  But  now  young  Gerald  with  it,  each  for  each ; 
And  with  a secret  and  assiduous  joy 
The  -grave  musician  taught  his  happy  boy. 

x 

The  boy’s  whole  thought  to  Music  lean’d  and  sway’d 
He  heard  a minor  in  the  wind  at  night, 

And  many  a tune  the  village  noises  play’d ; 

The  thunder  roar’d  like  bands  before  the  might 
Of  marching  armies ; in  deep  summer  calm 
The  falling  brooklet  would  intone  a psalm. 

XI. 

The  Chapel  organ-loft,  his  father’s  seat, 

Was  to  the  child  his  earthly  paradise ; 

And  that  celestial  one  that  used  to  greet 
His  infant  dreams,  could  take  no  other  guise 
Than  visions  of  green  curtains  and  gold  pipes, 
And  angels  of  whom  quire-girls  were  the  types. 


THE  MUSIC— MASTER. 


94 


. XII. 

Their  fresh  young  voices  from  the  congregation, 
Train’d  and  combined  by  simple  rules  of 
chant, 

And  lifted  on  the  harmonious  modulation 
Roll’d  from  the  lofty  organ,  ministrant 

To  sacred  triumph,  well  might  bring  a thought 

Of  angels  there,  — perhaps  themselves  it  brought. 

XIII. 

Poor  girls  the  most  were  : this  one  had  her  nest, 

A mountain  mavis,  in  the  craggy  furze  ; 

Another  in  close  lane  must  toil  and  rest, 

And  never  cage-bird’s  song  more  fine  than 
hers, 

Humming  at  work  all  through  the  busy  week, 

Set  free  in  Sabbath  chorus,  proud  and  meek. 

XIV. 

And  when  young  Gerald  might  adventure  forth 
Through  Music-land,  — where  hope  and  memory 
kiss 

And  singing  fly  beyond  the  bourne  of  earth, 

And  the  whole  spirit  full  of  aching  bliss 

Would  follow  as  the  parting  shrouds  reveal 
I Glimpses  ineffable,  but  soon  conceal, — 


92 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


XV. 

While  all  the  hills,  mayhap,  and  distant  plain, 
Village  and  brook  were  shaded,  fold  on  fold, 
With  the  slow  dusk,  and  on  the  purpling  pane 
Soft  twilight  barr’d  with  crimson  and  w 
gold 

Lent  to  that  simple  little  house  of  prayer 
A richly  solemn,  a cathedral  air  ; 


XVI. 

His  symphonies  to  suit  the  dying  close 

Suffused  it  with  a voice  that  could  not  ask 
In  vain  for  tears ; not  ask  in  vain  from  those 
Who  in  the  dew  fulfill'd  their  pious  task, 
Kneeling  with  rosaries  beside  a grave  ; 

To  whom  a heavenly  comforting  it  gave. 

XVII. 

Thus  village  years  went  by.  Day  after  day 
Flow’d,  as  a stream  unvext  with  storms 
floods 

Flows  by  some  islet  with  a hawthorn  grey ; 
Where  circling  seasons  bring  ^ share  ol 
buds, 

Nests,  blossoms,  ruddy  fruit,  and,  in  their  turn, 
Of  withering  leaves  and  frosty  twigs  forlorn. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


93 


XVIII. 

So  went  the  years,  that  never  may  abide  ; 

Boyhood  to  manhood,  manly  prime  to  age, 
Ceaselessly  gliding  on,  as  still  they  glide ; 

Until  the  father  yields  for  heritage 
(Joyful,  yet  with  a sigh)  the  master’s  place 
To  Gerald  — who  could  higher  fortune  grace. 

XIX. 

But  the  shy  youth  has  yet  his  hours  of  leisure  : 

And  now,  the  Spring  upon  the  emerald  hills 
Dancing  with  flying  clouds,  how  keen  his  pleas- 
ure, 

Plunged  in  deep  glens  or  tracking  upland 
rills, 

Till  lessening  light  recall  him  from  his  roaming 
To  breathe  his  gather’d  secrets  to  the  gloaming. 

xx. 

Spring  was  around  him,  and  within  him  too. 

Delightful  season  ! — life  without  a spur 
Bounds  gaily  forward,  and  the  heart  is  new 
As  the  green  wand  fresh  budded  on  a fir ; 

And  Nature,  into  jocund  chorus  waking, 

Tempts  every  young  voice  to  her  merry-making. 


94 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


XXI. 

Gerald,  high  echoing  this  delightful  Spring, 

Pour’d  from  his  finger-tips  electric  power 
In  audible  creations  swift  of  wing, 

Till  sunshine  glimpsing  through  an  April 
shower, 

And  clouds,  and  delicate  glories,  and  the  bound 
Of  lucid  sky  came  melting  into  sound. 

XXII. 

Our  ear  receives  in  common  with  our  eye 

One  Beauty,  flowing  through  a different  gate, 
With  melody  its  form,  and  harmony 
Its  hue  ; one  mystic  Beauty  is  the  mate 
Of  Spirit  indivisible,  one  love 
Her  look,  her  voice,  her  memory  do  move. 

XXIII. 

Yet  sometimes  in  his  playing  came  a tone 
Not  learn’d  of  sun  or  shadow,  wind  or  brook, 
But  thoughts  so  much  his  own  he  dared  not  own, 
Nor,  prizing  much,  appraise  them ; dared  nol 
look 

In  fear  to  lose  an  image  undefined 
That  brighten’d  every  vista  of  his  mind. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


95 


XXIV. 

Two  pupils  dwelt  upon  the  river-side, 

At  Cloonamore,  a cottage  near  the  rush 
Of  narrow’d  waters  breaking  from  a wide 

And  pond-like  smoothness,  brimming  green  and 
flush 

Dark  groves ; and  here  for  Gerald,  truth  to  say, 
His  weekly  task  was  more  than  holiday. 

XXV. 

A quiet  home  it  was ; compact  and  neat 
As  a wren’s  nest.  A gentle  woman’s  choice 
Had  built  and  beautified  the  green  retreat ; 

But  in  her  labours  might  she  not  rejoice, 

Being  summon’d  to  a stiller  place  of  rest ; 

And  spent  her  last  breath  in  a dear  behest. 

XXVI. 

That  was  for  her  two  daughters  : she  had  wed 
A plain,  rough  husband,  though  a kind  and 
true  ; 

And  u Dearest  Bernard,”  from  her  dying  bed 
She  whisper’d,  “ Promise  me  you’ll  try  to  do 
For  Ann  and  Milly  what  was  at  my  heart, 

If  God  had  spared  me  to  perform  my  part.” 


96 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


XXVII. 

As  well  as.  no  abundant  purse  allow'd, 

Or  as  the  neighbouring  village  could  supply, 

The  father  kept  his  promise,  and  was  proud 
To  see  the  girls  grow  up  beneath  his  eye 
Two  ladies  in  their  culture  and  their  mien ; 
Though  not  the  less  there  lay  a gulf  between. 

XXVIII. 

A spirit  unrefined  the  elder  had, 

An  envious  eye,  a tongue  of  petty  scorn. 

That  women  these  may  own  — how  true ! how 
sad ! 

And  these,  though  Ann  had  been  a countess 
born, 

Had  mark'd  her  meaner  to  the  dullest  sight 
Than  grows  a yellow  lily  with  a white. 

XXIX. 

White  lily,  — Milly,  — darling  little  girl ! 

I think  I see  as  once  I saw  her  stand  ; 

Her  soft  hair  waving  in  a single  curl 
Behind  her  ear  ; a kid  licking  her  hand ; 

Her  fair  young  face  with  health  and  racing  warm, 
And  loose  frock  blown  about  her  slender  form. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


97 


XXX. 

The  dizzy  lark,  a dot  on  the  white  cloud, 

That  sprinkles  music  o’er  the  vernal  breeze, 
Was  not  more  gay  than  Milly’s  joyous  mood; 

The  silent  lark  that  starry  twilight  sees 
Cradled  among  the  braird  in  closest  bower, 

Not  more  quiescent  than  her  tranquil  hour. 

XXXI. 

Her  mind  was  open,  as  a flowery  cup 

That  gathers  richness  from  the  sun  and 
dew, 

To  knowledge,  and  as  easily  drew  up 

The  wholesome  sap  of  life;  un watch’d  it 
grew, 

A lovely  blossom  in  a shady  place  ; 

And  like  her  mind,  so  was  her  innocent  face. 

XXXII. 

At  all  times  fair,  it  never  look’d  so  fair 
As  when  the  holy  glow  of  harmonies 
Lighted  it  through  ; her  spirit  as  it  were 
An  azure  heav’n  outshining  at  her  eyes ; 

With  Gerald’s  tenor  while  the  fountain  sprung 
Of  her  contralto,  fresh  and  pure  and  young. 


98 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


XXXIII. 

In  years  a child  when  lessons  thus  began, 

Child  is  she  still,  yet  nearly  woman  grown ; 

For  childhood  stays  with  woman  more  than  man, 

In  voice  and  cheek  and  mouth,  nor  these 
alone  ; 

And  up  the  sky  with  no  intense  revealing 
May  the  great  dawn  of  womanhood  come  stealing. 

XXXIV. 

Now  must  the  moon  of  childhood's  trembling 
white 

Faint  in  the  promise  of  her  flushing  heaven  ; 
Looks  are  turn'd  eastward,  where  new  orient  light 
Suffuses  all  the  air  with  subtle  leaven  ; 

And  shadowy  mountain-paths  begin  to  show 
Their  unsuspected  windings  'mid  the  glow. 

XXXV. 

Her  silky  locks  have  ripen’d  into  brown, 

Her  soft  blue  eyes  grown  deeper  and  more  shy, 
And  lightly  on  her  lifted  head  the  crown 
Of  queenly  maidenhood  sits  meek  and  high; 

Her  frank  soul  lives  in  her  ingenuous  voice, 

Most  purely  tuned  to  sorrow  or  rejoice. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


9S 


XXXVI. 

Within  the  Chapel  on  a Sunday  morn 

She  bows  her  mild  head  near  the  altar-rail, 

And  raises  up  that  mild  full  voice  unworn 
Into  the  singing;  — should  a Sunday  fail, 

There’s  one  would  often  mark  her  empty  seat, 
There’s  one  would  find  their  anthem  incorm 
plete. 


XXXVII. 

Few  her  companions  are,  and  few  her  books  ; 

And  in  a ruin’d  convent’s  circling  shade, 

The  loveliest  of  tranquil  river-nooks, 

Where  trailing  birch,  fit  bow’r  for  gentle  maid, 
And  feather’d  fir-tree  half  shut  out  the  stream, 

She  often  sits  alone  to  read  or  dream. 

XXXVIII. 

Sometimes  through  leafy  lattice  she  espies 
A flitting  figure  on  the  other  shore ; 

But  ever  past  th’  enchanted  precinct  hies 
That  wanderer,  and  where  the  rapids  roar 
Through  verdured  crags,  shelters  his  beating 
heart, 

Foolishly  bent  to  seek,  yet  stay  apart. 


100 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


XXXIX. 

Then  Milly  can  resume  her  reverie, 

About  a real  friend,  that  she  could  love : 

But  finds  her  broken  thought  is  apt  to  flee 
To  what  seem  other  musings : slowly  move 
The  days,  and  counted  days  move  ever  slowest . 
Milly ! how  long  ere  thy  own  heart  thou  know- 
est  ? 


XL. 

Sooner  than  Gerald  his.  His  path-side  birds 
Are  scarcely  more  unconscious  or  more  shrink- 
ing. 

Yet  would  he  tell  his  love  in  simple  words 
Did  love  stand  clearly  in  his  simple  thinking : 
High  the  discovery,  and  too  high  for  one 
Who  counts  his  life  as  though  not  yet  begun. 

XLI. 

For  all  the  rest  seem  sage  and  busy  men ; 

And  he  alone  despised,  and  justly  too, 

Or  borne  with  merely;  — could  he  venture  then 
To  deem  this  rich  inheritance  his  due  ? 

Slowly  the  fine  and  tender  soul  discerns 
Its  rareness,  and  its  lofty  station  learns. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


101 


XLII. 

And  now,  ’tis  on  a royal  eventide 

When  the  ripe  month  sets  glowing  earth  and 
air, 

And  Summer  by  a stream  or  thicket-side 
Twists  amber  honeysuckles  in  her  hair,  — 

Gerald  and  Milly  meet  by  trembling  chance, 

And  step  for  step  are  moving,  in  a trance, 

XLIII. 

On  pathway  foliage-curtain’d  and  moss-grown. 
Behind  the  trees  the  white  flood  flashing 
swift, 

Through  many  moist  and  ferny  rocks  flung  down, 
Boars  steadily,  where  sunlights  play  and  shift. 
How  oft  they  stop,  how  long,  they  nothing 
know, 

Nor  how  the  pulses  of  the  evening  go. 

XLIV. 

Their  talk  ? — the  dappled  hyacinthine  glade 
Lit  up  in  points  of  blue,  — how  soft  and  treble 
The  kine’s  deep  lowing  is  by  distance  made,  — 
The  quail’s  “ twit-wit-wit,”  like  a hopping 
pebble 


102 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


Thrown  along  ice,  — the  dragonflies,  the  birds, 

The  rustling  twig,  — all  noticed  in  few  words. 

XLV. 

A level  pond,  inlaid  with  lucid  shadows 

Of  groves  and  crannied  cliffs  and  evening  sky, 
And  rural  domes  of  hay,  where  the  green  meadows 
Slope  to  embrace  its  margin  peacefully, 

The  slumb'ring  river  to  the  rapid  draws ; 

And  here,  upon  a grassy  j ut,  they  pause.  * 

XLYI. 

How  shy  a strength  is  Love's,  that  so  much  fears 
Its  darling  secret  to  itself  to  own  l 
Their  rapt,  illimitable  mood  appears 
A beauteous  miracle  for  each  alone  ; 

Exalted  high  above  all  range  of  hope 
By  the  pure  soul's  eternity  of  scope. 

XLVII. 

Yet  in  both  hearts  a prophecy  is  breathed 
Of  how  this  evening’s  phantom  may  arise, 

In  richer  hues  than  ever  sunlight  wreathed 
On  hill  or  wood  or  wave  : in  brimming  eyes 
The  glowing  landscape  melts  away  from  each ; 
And  full  their  bosoms  swell,  too  full  for  speech. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


103 


XLVIII. 

Is  it  a dream  ? The  countless  happy  stars 
Stand  silently  into  the  deepening  blue ; 

In  slow  procession  all  the  molten  bars 

Of  cloud  move  down ; the  air  is  dim  with 
dew ; 

Eve  scatters  roses  on  the  shroud  of  day  ; 

The  common  world  sinks  far  and  far  away. 

XLIX. 

With  goodnight  kiss  the  zephyr,  half  asleep, 

Drops  to  its  cradle  in  the  dusk  of  trees, 

Where  river-chimings  tolling  sweet  and  deep 
Make  lullaby,  and  all  field-scents  that  please 
The  Summer’s  children  float  into  the  gloom 
Dream-interwoven  in  a viewless  loom.  * 

L. 

Clothed  with  an  earnest  paleness,  not  a blush, 

And  with  th’  angelic  gravity  of  love, 

Each  lover’s  face  amid  the  twilight  hush 

Is  like  a saint’s  whose  thoughts  are  all  above 
In  perfect  gratitude  for  heavenly  boon  ; 

And  o’er  them  for  a halo  comes  the  moon. 


104 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


LI. 

Thus  through  the  leaves  and  the  dim  dewy  croft 
They  linger  homeward.  Flowers  around  their 
feet 

Bless  them,  and  in  the  .firmament  aloft 

Night’s  silent  ardours.  And  an  hour  too  fleet, 
Though  stretching  years  from  all  the  life  before, 
Conducts  their  footsteps  to  her  cottage  door. 


LII. 

Thenceforth  they  meet  more  timidly  ? — in  truth, 
Some  lovers  might,  but  all  are  not  the  same ; 
In  the  clear  ether  of  their  simple  youth 

Steady  and  white  ascends  the  sacred  flame. 
They  do  not  shrink  hereafter ; rather  seek 
More  converse,  but  with  graver  voices  speak. 

LIII. 

One  theme  at  last  preferred  to  every  other, 
Joying  to  talk  of  that  mysterious  land 
Where  each  enshrines  the  image  of  a mother 
Best  of  all  watchers  in  the  guardian  band  ; 

To  highest,  tenderest  thought  is  freedom  given 
Amid  this  unembarrass’d  air  of  Heaven. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


105 


LIV. 

For  when  a hymn  has  wing’d  itself  away 
On  Palestrina’s  full-resounding  chords, 

&nd  at  the  trellis’d  window  loiter  they, 

Deferring  their  goodnight  with  happy  words, 
Almost  they  know,  without  a throb  of  fear, 

Of  spirits  in  the  twilight  standing  near. 

LV. 

knd  day  by  day  and  week  by  week  pass  by, 

And  Love  still  poised  upon  a trembling 
plume 

Floats  on  the  very  verge  of  sovereignty, 

Where  ev’n  a look  may  call  him  to  assume 
The  rich  apparel  and  the  shining  throne, 

And  claim  two  loyal  subjects  for  his  own. 

LYI. 

Wondrous,  that  first,  full,  mutual  look  of  love 
Coming  ere  either  looker  is  aware  ; 

Unbounded  trust,  a tenderness  above 

All  tenderness ; mute  music,  speechless  pray’r, 
Life’s  mystery,  reality,  and  might, 

Soft-swimming  in  a single  ray  of  light ! 


106 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


LVII. 

O when  shall  fly  this  talismanic  gleam, 

Which  melts  like  lightning  every  prison- 
bar, 

Which  penetrates  the  mist  with  keener  beam 
Than  flows  from  sun  or  moon  or  any  star  ? 
Love  waits  ; and  like  a pebble  of  the  ground 
Th’  imperial  gem  lies  willing  to  be  found. 

LYIII. 

One  evening,  Gerald  came  before  his  hour, 
Distrustful  of  the  oft-consulted  clock ; 

And  waits,  with  no  companion,  till  his  flow’r  — 
Keeping  the  time  as  one  of  Flora’s  flock, 
Whose  shepherdess,  the  Sunset  Star,  doth  fold 
Each  in  its  leaves  — he  may  again  behold. 

LIX. 

Nor  thinks  it  long.  Familiar  all,  and  dear, 

A sanctity  pervades  the  silent  room. 

Autumnal  is  the  season  of  the  year  ; 

A mystic  softness  and  love-weighty  gloom 
Gather  with  twilight.  In  a dream  he  lays 
His  hand  on  the  piano,  dreaming  plays. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


107 


LX. 

Most  faint  and  broken  sounds  at  first  are  stealing 
Into  the  shadowy  stillness  ; wild  and  slow, 
Imperfect  cadences  of  captive  feeling, 

Gathering  its  strength,  and  yet  afraid  to  know 
Its  chance  of  freedom,  — till  on  murmuring  chords 
Tlf  unguarded  thought  strays  forth  in  passionate 
words. 


LXI. 

Angel  of  Music  ! when  our  finest  speech 
Is  all  too  coarse  to  give  the  heart  relief, 

The  inmost  fountains  lie  within  thy  reach, 
Soother  of  every  joy  and  every  grief ; 

And  to  the  stumbling  words  thou  lendest  wings 
On  which  aloft  th’  enfranchised  spirit  springs. 

LXII. 

Much  love  may  in  not  many  words  be  told  ; 

And  on  the  sudden  love  can  speak  the  best. 
These  mystical  melodious  buds  unfold, 

On  every  petal  showing  clear  imprest 
The  name  of  Love.  So  Gerald  sung  and  play’d 
Unconscious  of  himself,  in  twilight  shade. 


108 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


LXIII. 

He  has  not  overheard  (O  might  it  be  !) 

This  stifled  sobbing  at  the  open  door, 

Where  Milly  stands  arrested  tremblingly 
By  that  which  in  an  instant  tells  her  more 
Than  all  the  dumb  months  mused  of ; tells  it 
plain 

To  joy  that  cannot  comprehend  its  gain. 

LXIV. 

One  moment,  and  they  shall  be  face  to  face, 

Free  iathe  gift  of  this  great  confidence, 

Wrapt  in  the  throbbing  calm  of  its  embrace, 

No  more  to  disunite  their  spirits  thence. 

The  myrtle  crown  stoops  close  to  either  brow,  - 
But  ah  ! what  alien  voice  distracts  them  now  ? 

LX  V. 

Her  sister  comes.  And  Milly  turns  away ; 

Hurriedly  bearing  to  some  quiet  spot 
Her  tears  and  her  full  heart,  longing  to  lay 
On  a dim  pillow  cheeks  so  moist  and  hot. 

When  midnight  stars  between  her  curtains  gleam 
Fair  Milly  sleeps,  and  dreams  a happy  dream. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


109 


LXYI. 

O dream,  poor  child ! beneath  the  midnight 
stars ; 

O slumber  through  the  kindling  of  the  dawn  ; 
The  shadow’s  on  its  way  ; the  storm  that  mars 
The  lily  even  now  is  hurrying  on. 

All  has  been  long  fulfill’d ; yet  I could  weep 
At  thought  of  thee  so  quietly  asleep. 

LXVII. 

But  Gerald,  through  the  night  serenely  spread, 
Walks  quickly  home,  intoxicate  with  bliss 
Not  named  and  not  examined ; overhead 

The  clustering  lights  of  worlds  are  full  of  this 
New  element;  the  soft  wind’s  dusky  wings 
Grow  warmer  on  his  cheek,  with  whisperings. 

LXYIII. 

And  yet  to-night  he  has  not  seen  his  Love. 

His  Love  — in  that  one  word  all  comfort  dwells 
Reaching  from  earth  to  those  clear  flames  above, 
And  making  common  food  of  miracles. 

Kind  pulsing  Nature,  touch  of  Deity, 

Sure  thou  art  full  of  love,  which  lovers  see  ! 


110 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


LXIX. 

Most  cruel  Nature,  so  unmoved,  so  hard, 

The  while  thy  children  shake  with  joy  or  pain  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  forward  Love,  nor  Death  retard 
One  finger-push,  for  mortal’s  dearest  gain. 

Our  Gerald,  through  the  night  serenely  spread, 
Walks  quickly  home,  and  finds  his  father  dead. 

LXX. 

God’s  awe  must  be  where  the  last  stroke  comes 
down, 

Though  but  the  ending  of  a weary  strife, 

Though  years  on  years  weigh  low  the  hoary  crown, 
Or  sickness  tenant  all  the  house  of  life  ; 
Stupendous  ever  is  the  great  event, 

The  frozen  form  most  strangely  different  ! 

LXXI. 

To  Gerald  follow’d  many  doleful  days, 

Like  wet  clouds  moving  through  a sullen  sky. 

A vast  unlook’d-for  change  the  mind  dismays, 

And  smites  its  world  with  instability ; 

Rocks  appear  quaking,  towers  and  treasures  vain, 
Peace  foolish,  Joy  disgusting,  Hope  insane. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


Ill 


LXXII. 

For  even  Cloonamore,  that  image  dear, 

Returns  to  Gerald’s  mind  like  its  own  ghost, 

In  melancholy  garments,  drench’d  and  sere, 

Its  joy,  its  colour,  and  its  welcome  lost. 

Wanting  one  token  sure  to  lean  upon, 

(How  almost  gain'd  !)  his  happy  dream  is  gone. 

LXXIII. 

Distracted  purposes,  a homeless  band, 

Throng  in  his  meditation  — now  he  flies 
To  rest  his  soul  on  Milly’s  cheek  and  hand,  — 

Now  he  makes  outcry  on  his  fantasies 
For  busy  cheats  : the  lesson  not  yet  learn ’d 
How  Life’s  true  coast  from  vapour  is  discern’d. 

LXXIV. 

Ah  me  ! Tis  like  the  tolling  of  a bell 
To  hear  it  — “ Past  is  past,  and  gone  is  gone  ; ” 
With  looking  back  afar  to  see  how  well 

We  could  have  ’scaped  our  losses,  and  have 
won 

High  fortune.  Ever  greatest  turns  on  least, 

Like  Earth’s  own  whirl  to  atom  poles  decreased. 


112 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


LXXV. 

For  in  the  gloomiest  hour  a letter  came, 

Shot  arrow-like  across  the  Western  sea, 

Praising  the  West ; its  message  was  the  same 
As  many  a time  ere  now  had  languidly 
Dropp’d  at  his  feet,  but  this  the  rude  gale  bore 
To  heart,  — Gerald  will  quit  our  Irish  shore. 

LXXVI. 

And  quit  his  Love  whom  he  completely  loves ; 
"Who  loves  him  just  as  much  ? Nay,  downcast 
youth  ! 

Nay,  dear  mild  maiden  ! — Surely  it  behoves 
That  somewhere  in  the  day  there  should  be  ruth 
For  innocent  blindness  ? lead,  oh,  lead  them  now 
One  step,  but  one  ! — Their  fates  do  not  allow. 

LXXVII. 

The  parting  scene  is  brief  and  frosty  dumb. 

The  unlike  sisters  stand  alike  unmoved ; 

For  Milly’s  soul  is  wilder’d,  weak,  and  numb, 

That  reft  away  which  seem’d  so  dearly  proved. 
While  thought  and  speech  she  struggles  to  recover 
Her  hand  is  prest  — and  he  is  gone  for  ever. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


113 


LXXVIII. 

Time  speeds  : on  an  October  afternoon 

Across  the  well-known  view  he  looks  his  last ; 
The  valley  clothed  with  peace  and  fruitful  boon, 
The  chapel  where  such  happy  hours  were  pass’d, 
With  rainbow-colour’d  foliage  round  its  eaves, 

And  windows  all  a-glitter  through  the  leaves. 

LXXIX. 

The  cottage-smokes,  the  river  ; — gaze  no  more, 
Sad  heart ! although  thou  canst  not,  wouldst  not 
shun 

The  vision  future  years  will  oft  restore, 

Whereon  the  light  of  many  a summer  sun, 

The  stars  of  many  a winter  night  shall  be 
Mingled  in  one  strange  sighing  memory. 

8 


END  OF  PART  I. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


A LOVE  STORY. 


PART  II. 

I. 

The  shadow  Death  o’er  Time’s  broad  dial  creeps 
With  never-halting  pace  from  mark  to  mark, 
Blotting  the  sunshine  ; as  it  coldly  sweeps, 

Each  living  symbol  melts  into  the  dark, 

And  changes  to  the  name  of  what  it  was ; — 
Shade-measured  light,  progression  proved  by  loss. 


ii. 

Blithe  Spring  expanding  into  Summer’s  cheer, 
Great  Summer  ripening  into  Autumn’s  glow, 
The  yellow  Autumn  and  the  wasted  year, 

And  hoary-headed  Winter  stooping  slow 
Under  the  dark  arch  up  again  to  Spring, 

Have  five  times  compass’d  their  appointed  ring. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


115 


III. 

See  once  again  our  village ; with  its  street 
Dozing  in  dusty  sunshine.  All  around 
Is  silence ; save,  for  slumber  not  unmeet, 

Some  spinning-wheeFs  continuous  whirring 
sound 

From  cottage  door,  where,  stretch’d  upon  his  side, 
The  moveless  dog  is  basking,  drowsy-eyed. 

IV. 

The  hollyhock  within  each  little  wall 

Sleeps  in  the  pomp  of  its  encrusted  blooms ; 
Up  the  hot  glass  the  sluggish  blue  flies  crawl ; 

The  heavy  bee  is  humming  into  rooms 
Through  open  window,  like  a sturdy  rover, 
Bringing  with  him  warm  scents  of  thyme  and 
clover. 

v. 

From  little  cottage-gardens  you  almost 

Smell  the  fruit  ripening  on  the  sultry  air ; 
Opprest  to  silence,  every  bird  is  lost 
In  eave  and  hedgerow ; save  that  here  and 
there 

With  twitter  swift,  the  sole  unquiet  thing, 

Shoots  the  dark  lightning  of  a swallow’s  wing. 


116 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


VI. 

Yet  in  this  hour  of  sunny  peacefulness 

One  is  there  whom  its  influence  little  calms, 

One  who  now  leans  in  agony  to  press 

His  throbbing  forehead  with  his  throbbing 
palms, 

Now  paces  quickly  up  and  down  within 

The  narrow  parlour  of  the  village  inn. 

VII. 

He  thought  he  could  have  tranquilly  beheld 
The  scene  again.  He  thought  his  faithful  grief, 

Spread  level  in  the  soul,  could  not  have  swell’d 
To  find  once  more  a passionate  relief. 

Three  years,  they  now  seem  hours,  have  sigh’d 
their  breath 

Since  when  he  heard  the  tidings  of  her  death. 

VIII. 

Last  evening  in  the  latest  dusk  he  came, 

A holy  pilgrim  from  a distant  land  ; 

And  objects  of  familiar  face  and  name, 

As  at  the  move  of  a miraculous  wand, 

Rose  round  his  steps  ; his  bed-room  window  show’d 

His  small  white  birthplace  just  across  the  road. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


117 


IX. 

Yet  in  that  room  he  could  not  win  repose  ; 

The  image  of  the  past  perplex’d  his  mind ; 
Often  he  sigh’d  and  turn’d,  and  sometimes  rose 
To  bathe  his  forehead  in  the  cool  night-wind, 
And  vaguely  watch  the  curtain  broad  and  grey 
Lifting  anew  from  the  bright  scene  of  day. 


x. 

When  creeping  sultry  hours  from  noontide  go, 
He  rounds  the  hawthorn  hedge’s  well-known 
turn, 

Melting  in  midsummer  its  bloomy  snow, 

And  through  the  chapel  gate.  His  heart  forlorn 
Draws  strength  and  comfort  from  the  pitying 
shrine 

Whereat  he  bows  with  reverential  sign. 

XI. 

Behind  the  chapel,  down  a sloping  hill, 

Circling  the  ancient  abbey’s  ivied  walls 
The  graveyard  sleeps.  A little  gurgling  rill 
Pour’d  through  a corner  of  the  ruin,  falls 
Into  a dusky-water’d  pond,  and  lags 
With  lazy  eddies  ’mid  its  yellow  flags. 


118 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


XII. 

Across  this  pool,  the  hollow  banks  enfold 
An  orchard  overrun  with  rankest  grass, 

And  gnarl’d  and  mossy  apple-trees,  as  old 
As  th’  oldest  graves  almost;  and  thither  pass 
The  smooth-worn  stepping-stones  that  give  their  aid 
To  many  a labourer  and  milking-maid. 

. XIII. 

And  not  unfrequently  to  rustic  bound 

On  a more  solemn  errand,  — when  we  see 
A suppliant  in  such  universal  ground, 

Let  all  be  reverence  and  sympathy; 

Assured  the  life  in  every  real  pray’r 
Is  that  which  makes  our  life  of  life  to  share. 

XI Y. 

But  resting  in  the  sunshine  very  lone 

Is  each  green  hummock  now,  each  wooden 
cross ; 

And  save  the  rillet  in  its  cup  of  stone 

That  poppling  falls,  and  whispers  through  the 
moss 

Down  to  the  quiet  pool,  no  sound  is  near 
To  break  the  stilliness  to  Gerald’s  ear. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


119 


XV. 

The  writhen  elder  spreads  its  creamy  bloom  ; 

The  thicket- tangling,  tenderest  briar-rose 
Kisses  to  air  its  exquisite  perfume 

In  shy  luxuriance  ; leaning  foxglove  glows 
With  elvish  crimson  ; — nor  all  vainly  meet 
The  eye  which  unobserved  they  seem  to  greet. 

XVI. 

Under  the  abbey  wall  he  wends  his  way, 
Admitted  through  a portal  arching  deep, 

To  where  no  roof  excludes  the  common  day ; 
Though  some  few  tombstones  in  the  shadows 
sleep 

Of  hoary  fibres  and  a throng  of  leaves, 

Which  venerable  ivy  slowly  weaves. 

XVII. 

First  hither  comes,  in  piety  of  heart, 

Over  his  mother’s,  father’s  grave  to  bend, 

The  faithful  exile.  Let  us  stand  apart, 

While  his  sincere  and  humble  pray’rs  ascend, 
As  such  devout  aspirings  do,  we  trust, 

To  Him  who  sow’d  them  in  our  breathing 
dust. 


120 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


XVIII. 

But  veil  our  very  thoughts  lest  they  intrude 
(Oh,  silent  death!  oh,  living  pain  full  sore!) 
Where  finds  he,  wrapt  in  grassy  solitude, 

That  gentle  matron’s  grave,  of  Cloonamore, 
And  on  the  stone  these  added  words  are  seen  — 
“ Also,  her  daughter  Milly,  aged  eighteen.” 

XIX. 

Profound  the  voiceless  aching  of  the  breast, 
When  weary  life  is  like  a grey  dull  eve 
Emptied  of  colour,  withering  and  waste 

Around  the  prostrate  soul,  too  weak  to 
grieve  — 

Stretch’d  far  below  the  tumult  and  strong  cry 
Of  passion  — its  lamenting  but  a sigh. 


xx. 

Grief’s  mystery  desire  not  to  disperse, 

Nor  wish  the  secret  of  the  world  outspoken  ; 
’Tis  not  a toy,  this  vital  Universe, 

That  thua  its  inner  caskets  may  be  broken. 
Sorrow  and  pain,  as  well  as  hope  ‘and  love, 
Stretch  out  of  view  into  the  heavens  above. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


121 


XXI. 

Yet,  oh  ! the  cruel  coldness  of  the  grave, 

The  keen  remembrance  of  the  happy  past, 
The  thoughts  which  are  at  once  tyrant  and 
slave, 

The  sudden  sense  that  drives  the  soul  aghast, 
The  drowning  horror,  and  the  speechless  strife, 
That  fain  would  sink  to  death  or  rise  to  life  ! 

XXII. 

At  last,  as  Gerald  lifted  up  his  face, 

He  grew  aware  that  he  was  not  alone. 

Amid  the  silence  of  the  sacred  place 

Another  form  was  stooping  o’er  the  stone  ; 

A greyhair’d  woman’s.  When  she  met  his  eyes 
She  shriek’d  aloud  in  her  extreme  surprise. 

XXIII. 

“ The  Holy  Mother  keep  us  day  and  night ! 

And  who  is  this  ? — Oh,  Master  Gerald, 
dear, 

I little  thought  to  ever  see  this  sight  ! 

Warm  to  the  King  above  I offer  here 
My  praises  for  the  answer  he  has  sent 
To  all  my  pray’rs ; for  now  I’ll  die  content ! ” 


122 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


XXI Y. 

Then,  as  if  talking  to  herself,  she  said, 

“ I nursed  her  when  she  was  a little  child. 

I smooth’d  the  pillow  of  her  dying  bed. 

And  just  the  way  that  she  had  often  smiled 
When  sleeping  in  her  cradle  — that  same  look 
Was  on  her  face  with  the  last  kiss  I took.” 

xx v. 

“ *Twas  in  the  days  of  March,”  she  said  again. 

“ And  so  it  is  the  sweetest  blossom  dies, 

The  wrinkled  leaf  hangs  on,  though  falling  fain. 
I thought  your  hand  would  close  my  poor  old 
eyes, 

And  not  that. I’d  be  sitting  in  the  sun 
Beside  your  grave,  — the  Lord’s  good  will  be 
done  ! ” 


XXVI. 

Thus  incoherently  the  woman  spoke, 

With  many  interjections  full  of  woe  ; 

And  wrapping  herself  up  within  her  cloak 
Began  to  rock  her  body  to  and  fro ; 

And  moaning  softly,  seem’d  to  lose  all  sense 
Of  outward  life  in  memories  so  intense. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


123 


XXVII. 

Till  Gerald  burst  bis  silence  and  exclaim’d, 

With  the  most  poignant  earnestness  of  tone, 

“ O nurse,  I loved  her  ! — though  I never  named 
The  name  of  love  to  her,  or  any  one. 

’Tis  to  her  grave  here — — ” He  could  say  no 
more, 

But  these  few  words  a load  of  meaning  bore. 
XXVIII. 

Beside  the  tombstone  mute  they  both  remain’d. 

At  last  the  woman  rose,  and  coming  near, 
Said  with  a tender  voice  that  had  regain’d 
A tremulous  calm,  “ Then  you  must  surely 
hear 

The  whole  from  first  to  last,  cushla-ma-chree ; 

For  God  has  brought  together  you  and  me.” 

XXIX. 

And  there  she  told  him  all  the  moving  tale, 
Broken  with  many  tears  and  sobs  and  sighs; 
How  gentle  Milly’s  health  began  to  fail; 

How  a sad  sweetness  grew  within  her  eyes, 
And  trembled  on  her  mouth,  so  kind  and  meek, 
And  flush’d  across  her  pale  and  patient  cheek. 


124 


THE  MUSIC-MASTEK. 


XXX. 

And  how  about  this  time  her  sister  Ann 

“Entered  Religion/’*  and  her  father’s  thought 
Refused  in  Milly’s  face  or  voice  to  scan, 

Or  once  so  lively  step,  the  change  that 
wrought ; 

Until  a sad  conviction  flew  at  last, 

And  with  a barb  into  his  bosom  pass’d. 

XXXI. 

Then,  with  most  anxious  haste,  her  dear  old 
nurse 

TTas  sent  for  to  become  her  nurse  again  ; 

But  still  the  pretty  one  grew  worse  and  worse. 

F or  with  a gradual  lapsing,  free  of  pain, 

And  slow  removes,  that  fond  eyes  would  not  see, 
Crept  on  the  hopeful,  hopeless  malady. 

XXXII. 

Spring  came,  and  brought  no  gift  of  life  to  her, 
Of  all  it  lavish’d  in  the  fields  and  woods. 

Yet  she  was  cheer’d  when  birds  began  to  stir 
About  the  shrubbery,  and  the  pale  gold  buds 


4. 

* Took  conventual  vows. 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


125 


Burst  on  the  willows,  and  with  hearty  toil 
The  ploughing  teams  upturn’d  the  sluggish  soil. 

XXXIII. 

“’Twas  on  a cold  March  evening,  well  I mind,” 
The  nurse  went  on,  “ we  sat  and  watch’d  to- 
gether 

The  long  grey  sky;  and  then  the  sun  behind 
The  clouds  shone  down,  though  not  like  sum- 
mer weather, 

On  the  hills  far  away.  I can’t  tell  why, 

But  of  a sudden  I began  to  cry. 

xxxiv. 

44 1 dried  my  tears  before  I turn’d  to  her, 

But  then  I saw  that  her  eyes  too  were  wet, 
And  pale  her  face,  and  calm  without  a stir; 
Whilst  on  the  lighted  hills  her  look  was 
set, 

Where  strange  beyond  the  cold  dark  fields  they 

lay, 

As  if  her  thoughts,  too,  journey’d  far  away. 

XXXV. 

“After  a while  she  ask’d  me  to  unlock 
A drawer,  and  bring  a little  parcel  out. 


126 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


I knew  it  was  of  it  she  wish’d  to  talk, 

But  long  she  held  it  in  her  hand  in  doubt; 

And  whilst  she  strove,  there  came  a blush  and 
spread 

Her  face  and  neck  with  a too  passing  red. 
xxxvi. 

44  At  length  she  put  her  other  hand  in  mine ; 

4 Dear  nurse/  she  said,  4 1 ’m  sure  I need  not 
ask 

Your  promise  to  fulfil  what  I design 

To  make  my  last  request,  and  your  last  task. 

You  knew  young  Master  Gerald’  (here  her 
speech 

Grew  plain)  ‘that  used  to  come  here  once  to 
teach  ? ’ 


XXXVII. 

44 1 said  I knew  you  well ; and  she  went  on,  — 

4 Then  listen : if  you  ever  see  him  more, 

And  he  should  speak  of  days  are  past  and 
gone, 

And  of  his  scholars  and  his  friends  before  — 
Should  ask  you  questions  — knowing  what  you’ve 
been 

To  me,  — Oh!  could  I tell  you  what  I mean!’ 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


127 


XXXVIII. 

“ But,  sir,  I understood  her  meaning  well ; 

Not  from  her  words  so  much  as  from  her 
eyes. 

I saw  it  all ; my  heart  began  to  swell, 

I took  her  in  my  arms  with  many  sighs 
And  murmurs,  and  she  lean’d  upon  my  neck 
Till  we  both  cried  our  fill  without  a check. 

XXXIX. 

“ She  saw  I knew  her  mind,  and  bade  me 
give 

Into  your  hand,  if  things  should  so  befall, 

The  parcel ; — else,  as  long  as  I should  live, 

It  was  to  be  a secret  kept  from  all, 

And  say  you  never  wrote,  never  return’d, 

When  my  last  hour  drew  near,  was  to  be  burn’d. 


XL. 

“ I promised  to  observe  her  wishes  duly ; 

But  said  I hoped  in  God  that  she  would  still 
Live  many  years  beyond  myself.  And  truly 
While  she  was  speaking,  like  a miracle 
Her  countenance  lost  every  sickly  trace. 

Ah,  dear ! ’twas  setting  light  was  in  her  face. 


128 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


XLI. 

“ She  told  me  she  was  tired,  and  went  to  bed, 
And  I sat  watching  by  her  until  dark, 

And  then  I lit  her  lamp,  and  round  her  head 
Let  down  the  curtains.  ’Twas  my  glad  re- 
mark 

How  softly  she  was  breathing,  and  my  mind 
Was  full- of  hope  and  comfort, — but  we’re  blind! 

XLII. 

“ The  night  wore  on,  and  I had  fall’n  asleep, 
When  about  three  o’clock  I heard  a noise 
And  sprang  up  quickly.  In  the  silence  deep 
Was  some  one  praying  with  a calm  weak 
voice ; 

Her  own  voice,  though  not  sounding  just  the 
same ; 

And  in  the  pray’r  I surely  heard  your  name. 
XLIII. 

u Sweet  Heaven  ! we  scarce  had  time  to  fetch 
the  priest. 

How  sadly  through  the  shutters  of  that  room 
Crept  in  the  blessed  daylight  from  the  east 
To  us  that  sat  there  weeping  in  the  gloom ; 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


129 


And  touch’d  the  close-shut  eyes  and  peaceful 
brow, 

But  brought  no  fear  of  her  being  restless  now. 


XLIY. 

“ The  wake  was  quiet.  Noiseless  went  the  hours 
Where  she  was  lying  stretch’d  so  still  and 
white ; 

And  near  the  bed,  a glass  with  some  Spring 
flowers 

From  her  own  little  garden.'  Day  and  night 
I watch’d,  until  they  took  my  lamb  away, 

The  child  here  by  the  mother’s  side  to  lay. 

XLY. 

u The  holy  angels  make  your  bed,  my  dear ! 

But  little  call  have  we  to  pray  for  you: 

Pray  you  for  him  that’s  left  behind  you  here, 

To  have  his  heart  consoled  with  heavenly  dew! 
And  pray  too  for  your  poor  old  nurse,  asthore ; 
Your  own  true  mother  scarce  could  love  you 
more  ! ” 

XLYI. 

Slow  were  their  feet  among  the  many  graves, 
Over  the  stile  and  up  the  chapel  walk, 

9 


130 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


Where  stood  the  poplars  with  their  timid  leaves 
Hung  motionless  on  every  slender  stalk. 

The  air  in  one  hot  calm  appear’d  to  lie, 

And  thunder  mutter’d  in  the  heavy  sky. 

XL  VII. 

Along  the  street  was  heard  the  laughing  sound 
Of  boys  at  play,  who  knew  no  thought  of 
death ; 

Deliberate-stepping  cows,  to  milking  bound, 

Lifted  their  heads  and  low’d  with  fragrant 
breath ; 

The  women  knitting  at  their  thresholds  cast 

A look  upon  our  stranger  as  he  pass’d. 

XL  VIII. 

Scarce  had  the  mourners  time  a roof  to  gain, 
When,  with  electric  glare  and  thunder-crash, 

Heavy  and  straight  and  fierce  came  down  the  rain, 
Soaking  the  white  road  with  its  sudden  plash, 

Driving  all  folk  wuthin-doors  at  a race, 

And  making  every  kennel  gush  apace. 

XLIX. 

The  storm  withdrew  as  quickly  as  it  came, 

And  through  the  broken  clouds  a brilliant  ray 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


131 


Glow’d  o’er  the  dripping  earth  in  yellow  flame, 
And  flush’d  the  village  panes  with  parting  day. 
Sudden  and  full  that  swimming  lustre  shone 
Into  the  room  where  Gerald  sat  alone. 


L. 

The  door  is  lock’d,  and  on  the  table  lies 

The  open  parcel.  Long  he  wanteth  strength 
To  trust  its  secrets  to  his  feverish  eyes; 

But  now  the  message  is  convey’d  at  length ; — 
A note ; a case ; and  folded  with  them  there 
One  finest  ringlet  of  brown-auburn  hair. 


LI. 

The  case  holds  Miily’s  portrait  — her  reflection : 
Lips  half  apart  as  though  about  to  speak; 

The  frank  white  brow,  young  eyes  of  grave 
affection, 

Even  the  pretty  seam  in  the  soft  cheek : 

Swift  image  of  a moment  snatch’d  from  Time, 
Fix’d  by  a sunbeam  in  eternal  prime. 

LII. 

The  note  ran  thus,  “ Dear  Gerald,  near  my 
%death, 

I feel  that  like  a Spirit’s  words  are  these, 


132  THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 

In  which  I say,  that  I have  perfect  faith 

In  your  true  love  for  me,  — as  God,  who  sees 
The  secrets  of  all  hearts,  can  see  in  mine 
That  fondest  truth  which  sends  this  feeble  sign. 

LIII. 

“I  do  not  think  that  he  will  take  away, 

Even  in  Heaven,  this  precious  earthly  love ; 
Surely  he  sends  its  pure  and  blissful  ray 
Down  as  a message  from  the  world  above. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  full  light  drawing  near 
Which  makes  the  doubting  Past  at  length  grow 
clear. 

LIV. 

“We  might  have  been  so  happy!  — But  His 
will 

Said  no,  who  orders  all  things  for  the  best. 

O may  his  power  into  your  soul  instil 

A peace  like  this  of  which  I am  possess’d ! 
And  may  he  bless  you,  love,  for  evermore, 

And  guide  you  safely  to  his  Heavenly  shore ! ” 

LV. 

Hard  sits  the  downy  pillow  to  a head  • 
Aching  with  memories : and  Gerald  sought 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


133 


The  mournful  paths  where  happy  hours  had 
fled, — 

Pacing  through  silent  labyrinths  of  thought. 
Yet  sometimes,  in  his  loneliness  of  grief, 

The  richness  of  the  loss  came  like  relief. 

LYI. 

Minutely  he  recall’d,  with  tender  pride, 

How  one  day  — which  is  gone  for  ever- 
more — 

Among  his  bunch  of  wild  flowers  left  aside, 

He  found  a dark  carnation,  seen  before 
In  Milly’s  girdle,  — but  alas,  too  dull 
To  read  its  crimson  cypher  in  the  full ! 

LVII. 

She  smiled,  the  centre  of  a summer’s  eve  : 

She  sung  with  all  her  countenance  a-glow 
In  her  own  room,  and  he  could  half  believe 
The  voice  did  far-off  in  the  darkness  flow : 
He  saw  her  stretch’d  in  a most  silent  place, 
With  the  calm  light  of  prayer  upon  her  face. 

LVIII. 

All  this  night  long  the  water-drops  he  heard 
Vary  their  talk  of  chiming  syllables, 


,134 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


Dripping  into  the  butt ; and  in  the  yard 

The  ducks  gabbling  at  daylight : till  the  spells 
Of  misty  sense  recall’d  a childish  illness 
When  the  same  noises  broke  the  watching  still- 
ness. 


LIX. 

Wellnigh  he  hoped  that  he  had  sadly  dream’d, 
And  all  the  interval  was  but  a shade. 

But  now  the  slow  dawn  through  his  window 
gleam’d, 

And  whilst  in  dear  oblivion  he  was  laid, 

And  Morning  rose,  parting  the  vapours  dim, 

A happy  heavenly  vision  came  to  him. 


LX. 

Kind  boons  of  comfort  may  in  dream  descend, 
Nor  wholly  vanish  in  the  broad  daylight 
— When  this  our  little  stoiy  hath  an  end, 

That  flickers  like  a dream  in  woof  of  night, 
Its  slender  memory  may  perchance  be  wrought 
Among  the  tougher  threads  of  waking  thought  ? • 

LXI. 

Thus  Gerald  came  and  went.  Till  far  away, 

His  coming  and  his  errand  were  not  told. 


• THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


135 


And  years  had  left  behind  that  sunny  day, 

Ere  some  one  from  the  New  World  to  the  Old 
Brought  news  of  him,  in  a great  Southern  town, 
Assiduous  there,  but  seeking  no  renown. 

LXII. 

After  another  silent  interval, 

The  little  daily  lottery  of  the  post 
Gave  me  a prize ; from  one  who  at  the  call 
Of  u westward  ho ! ” had  left  our  fair  green 
coast, 

With  comrades  eager  as  himself  to  press 
Into  the  rough  unharrow’d  wilderness. 

LXIII. 

“ Through  these  old  forests  (thus  he  wrote)  we 
came 

One  sundown  to  a clearing.  Western  light 
Burn’d  in  the  pine-tops  with  a fading  flame 
Over  untrodden  regions,  and  dusk  night 
Out  of  the  solemn  woods  appear’d  to  rise 
To  some  strange  music,  full  of  quivering  sighs. 

LXIV. 

u Such  must  have  been  the  atmosphere,  we  thought, 
The  visionary  light  of  ancient  years, 


136 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


When  Red  Man  east  or  west  encounter’d  nought 
Save  bear  and  squirrel,  with  their  wild  com- 
peers. 

But  other  life  was  now ; and  soon  we  found 
The  little  citadel  of  this  new  ground. 

LXV. 

u The  neat  log-Cctbin  from  its  wall  of  pines 
Look’d  out  upon  a space  of  corn  and  grass 
Yet  thick  with  stumps;  ’twas  eaved  with  running 
vines, 

As  though  among  the  vanquish’d  woods  to  pass 
For  something  native.  Drawing  to  its  door, 

We  question’d  of  the  mystic  sounds  no  more. 

LXVI. 

“ They  blended  with  the  twilight  and  the  trees, 
At  hand,  around,  above,  and  far  away, 

That  first  it  was  a voice  as  of  the  breeze 
Hymning  its  vespers  in  the  forest  grey ; 

But  now  we  heard  not  airy  strains  alone, 

But  human  feeling  throb  in  every  tone 

LXVII. 

A swelling  agonv  of  tearful  strife 
Being  wearied  out  and  hush’d,  — from  the  pro- 
found 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


137 


Arose  a music  deep  as  love  or  life, 

That  spread  into  a placid  lake  of  sound, 

And  took  the  infinite  into  its  breast, 

With  Earth  and  Heaven  in  one  embrace  at  rest 

LXVIII. 

“ And  then  the  flute-notes  fail’d.  Approaching 
slow, 

Whom  found  we  seated  in  the  threshold 
shade  ? 

Gerald,  — our  Music-Master  long  ago 
In  poor  old  Ireland  ! much  inquiry  made 
Along  our  track  for  him  had  proved  in  vain  ; 
And  here  at  once  we  grasp’d  his  hand  again  ! 

LXIX. 

“ And  he  received  us  with  the  warmth  of  heart 
Our  brothers  lose  not  under  any  sky. 

But  what  was  strange,  he  did  not  stare  or  start 
As  if  astonish’d,  when,  so  suddenly, 
Long-miss’d  familiar  faces  from  the  wood 
Emerged  like  ghosts,  and  at  his  elbow  stood. 

LXX. 

“ ’Twas  like  a man  who  joyfully  was  greeting 
(So  thought  I)  some  not  unexpected  friends. 


138 


THE  MUSIC-MASTER. 


And  yet  he  had  not  known  our  chance  of  meeting 
More  than  had  we : but  soon  he  made  amends 
For  lack  of  wonder,  by  the  dextrous  zeal 
That  put  before  us  no  unwelcome  meal. 

LXXI. 

“ We  gave  him  all  our  news,  and  in  return 
He  told  us  how  he  lived,  — a lonely  life ! 

Miles  from  a neighbour  sow’d  and  reap’d  his 
corn, 

And  hardy  grew.  One  spoke  about  a wife 
To  cheer  him  in  that  solitary  wild, 

But  Gerald  only  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

LXXIII. 

“ Next  dawn,  when  each  one  of  our  little  band 
Had  on  a mighty  Walnut  carved  his  name, — 
Henceforth  a sacred  tree,  he  said,  to  stand 
’Mid  his  enlarging  bounds,  — the  moment  came 
For  farewell  words.  But  long,  behind  our  backs, 
We  heard  the  echoes  of  his  swinging  axe.” 


DAY  AND  NIGHT  SONGS. 

A 


SECOND  SERIES. 


I. 


THE  CHOICE. 

How  let  me  choose  a native  blossom, 
Ere  I quit  the  sunny  fields, 

Fittest  for  my  Lucy’s  bosom, 

Hill,  or  brake,  or  meadow  yields. 

Flag  or  Poppy  I’ll  not  gather, 

Briony  or  Pimpernel; 

Scented  Thyme  or  sprouting  Heather, 
Though  I like  them  both  so  well. 

Purpling  Vetches,  crimson  Clover, 
Pea-bloom  winglets,  pied  and  faint, 

Bluebell,  Windflow’r,  pass  them  over; 
Sober  Mallow,  Orchis  quaint; 

Striped  Convolvulus  in  hedges, 
Columbine,  and  Mountain-Pink; 


142 


THE  CHOICE. 


Lilies,  floating  seen  through  sedges, 
Violets  nestling  by  the  brink ; 

Creamy  Elder,  blue  Germander, 
Betony  that  seeks  the  shade  ; 

Nor ‘where  Honeysuckles  wander, 

May  that  luscious  balm  persuade. 

Sad  Forget-me-not’s  a token 
Full  of  partings  and  mishaps; 

Leave  the  Foxglove  spire  unbroken, 
Lest  the  fairies  want  for  caps. 

Crimson  Loose-strife,  Crowfoot,  Pansy, 
Golden  Gorse,  or  golden  Broom, 

Eyebright  cannot  fix  my  fancy, 

Nor  the  Meadowsweet’s  perfume. 

Azure,  scarlet,  pink,  or  pearly, 

Kustic  friends  in  field  or  grove,  — 

Each  of  you  I prize  full  dearly; 

None  of  you  is  for  my  Love ! 

Wild-Bose ! delicately  flushing 
All  the  border  of  the  dale, — 

Art  thou  like  a pale  cheek  blushing, 
Or  a red  cheek  turning  pale? 


THE  CHOICE. 


143 


Is  it  sorrow  ? Is  it  gladness  ? 

Lover’s  hopes  or  lover’s  fears  ? 

Or  a most  delicious  sadness, 

Mingled  up  of  smiles  and  tears  ? 

Come  ! — no  silky  leaflet  shaken  — 

To  a breast  as  pure  and  fair; 

Come ! and  thoughts  more  tender  waken 
Than  thy  fragrant  spirit  there! 


II. 


iEOLIAN  HARP. 

What  is  it  that  is  gone,  we  fancied  ours? 

O what  is  lost  that  never  may  be  told  ? — 

We  stray  all  afternoon,  and  we  may  grieve 
Until  the  perfect  closing  of  the  night.  * 

Listen  to  us,  thou  grey  Autumnal  Eve, 

Whose  part  is  silence.  At  thy  verge  the  clouds 
Are  broken  into  melancholy  gold ; 

The  waifs  of  Autumn  and  the  feeble  flow’rs 
Glimmer  along  our  woodlands  in  wet  light; 
Because  within  thy  deep  thou  hast  the  shrouds 
Of  joy  and  great  adventure,  waxing  cold, 

Which  once,  or  so  it  seem’d,  were  full  of  might 
Some  power  it  was  that  lives  not  with  us  now, 

A thought  we  had,  but  could  not,  could  not  hold. 
O sweetly,  swiftly  pass’d  ! — air  sings  and  mur- 
murs ; 

Green  leaves  are  gathering  on  the  dewy  bough: 


jEOLIAN  harp. 


145 


O sadly,  swiftly  pass’d ! — air  sighs  and  mutters  ; 
Red  leaves  are  dropping  on  the  rainy  mould. 
Then  comes  the  snow,  unfeatured,  vast,  and 
white. 

O what  is  gone  from  us,  we  fancied  ours? 


10 


III. 


THE  PILOT’S  PRETTY  DAUGHTER. 

O’er  western  tides  the  fair  Spring  Day 
Was  smiling  back  as  it  withdrew, 

And  all  the  harbour,  glittering  gay, 

Return’d  a blithe  adieu; 

Great  clouds  above  the  hills  and  sea 
Kept  brilliant  watch,  and  air  was  free 
For  last  lark  first-born  star  to  greet, — 
When,  for  the  crowning  vernal  sweet, 
Among  the  slopes  and  crags  I meet 

The  Pilot’s  pretty  Daughter. 

Round  her  gentle,  happy  face, 

Dimpled  soft,  and  freshly  fair, 

Danced  with  careless  ocean  grace 
Locks  of  auburn  hair: 

As  lightly  blew  the  veering  wind, 

They  touch’d  her  cheeks,  or  waved  behind, 


THE  PILOT’S  PRETTY  DAUGHTER.  147 


Unbound,  unbraided,  and  unloop’d; 

Or  when  to  tie  her  shoe  she  stoop’d, 

Below  her  chin  the  half-curls  droop’d, 

And  veil’d  the  Pilot’s  Daughter. 

Bising,  she  toss’d  them  gaily  back, 

With  gesture  infantine  and  brief, 

To  fall  around  as  soft  a neck 
As  the  wild-rose’s  leaf. 

Her  Sunday  frock  of  lilac  shade 
(That  choicest  tint)  was  neatly  made, 

And  not  too*  long  to  hide  from  view 
The  stout  but  noway  clumsy  shoe, 

And  stocking’s  smoothly-fitting  blue, 

That  graced  the  Pilot’s  Daughter. 

With  look,  half  timid  and  half  droll, 

And  then  with  slightly  downcast  eyes, 

And  something  of  a blush  that  stole, 

Or  something  from  the  skies 
Deepening  the  warmth  upon  her  cheek, 

She  turn’d  when  I began  to  speak; 

The  firm  young  step  a sculptor’s  choice ; 
How  clear  the  cadence  of  her  voice  ! 

Health  bade  her  virgin  soul  rejoice,  — 

The  Pilot’s  lovely  Daughter. 


148  THE  PILOT’S  PRETTY  DAUGHTER. 

Were  it  my  lot  (the  sudden  wish)  — 

To  hand  a pilot’s  oar  and  sail, 

Or  haul  the  dripping  moonlight  mesh, 
Spangled  with  herring-scale ; 

By  dying  stars,  how  sweet  ’twould  be, 

And  dawn-blow  freshening  the  sea, 

With  wear y,  cheery  pull  to  shore, 

To  gain  my  cottage-home  once  more, 

And  clasp,  before  I reach  the  door, 

My  love,  the  Pilot’s  Daughter! 

This  element  beside  my  feet 
Allures,  a tepid  wine  of  gold ; 

One  touch,  one  taste  dispels  the  cheat, 

’Tis  salt  and  nipping  cold  : 

A fisher’s  hut,  the  scene  perforce 
Of  narrow  thoughts  and  manners  coarse, 
Coarse  as  the  curtains  that  beseem 
With  net-festoons  the  smoky  beam, 

Would  never  lodge  my  favourite  dream, 
E’en  with  my  Pilot’s  Daughter. 

To  riches  of  the  common  earth, 

Endowing  men  in  their  own  spite, 

The  Poor , by  privilege  of  birth, 

Stand  in  the  closest  right. 


THE  PILOT'S  PRETTY  DAUGHTER.  149 


Yet  not  the  hand  alone  grows  dull  « 
With  clayey  delve  and  watery  pull  : 

And  this  for  me,  — or  hourly  pain. 

But  could  I sink  and  call  it  gain  ? 

Unless  a pilot  true,  'twere  vain 

To  wed  a Pilot's  Daughter. 

Lift  Aer,  perhaps  ? — but  ah  ! I said, 
Much  wiser  leave  such  thoughts  alone. 
So  may  thy  beauty,  simple  maid, 

Be  mine,  yet  all  thy  own. 

Join'd  in  my  free  contented  love 
With  companies  of  stars  above ; 

Who  from  their  throne  of  airy  steep 
Do  kiss  these  ripples  as  they  creep 
Across  the  boundless  darkening  deep, — - 
Low  voiceful  wave  ! hush  soon  to  sleep 
The  gentle  Pilot’s  Daughter  I 


IV. 


TO  THE  CICADA. 

By  Meleager. 

From  the  Greek  Anthology . 

Cicada  ! drunk  with  drops  of  dew, 
What  musician  equals  you 
In  the  rural  solitude  ? 

On  a perch  amidst  the  wood, 
Scraping  to  your  heart’s  desire 
Dusky  sides  with  notchy  feet, 
Shrilling,  thrilling,  fast  and  sweet, 
Like  the  music  of  a lyre. 

Dear  Cicada ! I entreat, 

Sing  the  Dryads  something  new; 

So  from  thick-embowr’d  seat 
Pan  himself  may  answer  you, 

Till  every  inmost  glade  rejoices 
With  your  loud  alternate  voices; 


TO  THE  CICADA. 


151 


And  I listen,  and  forget 
All  the  thorns,  the  doubts  and  fears, 
Love  in  lover's  heart  may  set ; 
Listen,  and  forget  them  all. 

And  so,  with  music  in  mine  ears, 
Where  the  plane-tree-shadows  steep 
The  ground  with  coldness,  softly  fall 
Into  a noontide  sleep. 


V. 


THE  COLD  WEDDING. 

But  three  days  gone 
Her  hand  was  won 
By  suitor  finely  skill’d  to  woo ; 

And  now  come  we 
In  pomp  to  see 
The  Church’s  ceremonials  due. 

The  Bride  in  white 
Is  clad  aright, 

Within  her  carriage  closely  hid ; 

No  blush  to  veil  — 

For  too,  too  pale 

The  cheek  beneath  each  downcast  lid. 

White  favours  rest 
On  every  breast ; 


THE  COLD  WEDDING. 


153 


And  yet  methinks  we  seem  not  gay. 

The  church  is  cold, 

The  priest  is  old, — 

But  who  will  give  the  bride  away? 

Now,  delver,  stand, 

With  spade  in  hand, 

All  mutely  to  discharge  thy  trust: 

Priest’s  words  sound  forth; 

They’re  — “Earth  to  earth, 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust.” 

The  groom  is  Death ; 

He  has  no  breath; 

(The  wedding  peals,  how  slow  they  swing !) 
With  icy  grip 
He  soon  will  clip 
Her  finger  with  a wormy  ring. 

A match  most  fair. 

This  silent  pair, 

Now  to  each  other  given  for  ever, 

Were  lovers  long, 

Were  plighted  strong 
In  oaths  and  bonds  that  could  not  sever. 


154 


THE  COLD  WEDDING. 


Ere  she  was  born 
That  vow  was  sworn  ; 

And  we  must  lose  into  the  ground 
Her  face  we  knew: 

As  thither  you 

And  I,  and  all,  are  swiftly  bound. 

This  Law  of  Laws 
That  still  withdraws 
Each  mortal  from  all  mortal  ken  — 

If  ’twere  not  here  ; 

Or  we  saw  clear 

Instead  of  dim  as  now  ; — what  then  ? 
This  were  not  Earth,  and  we  not  Men 


VI. 


ON  A FORENOON  OF  SPRING. 

I’m  glad  I am  alive,  to  see  and  feel 
The  full  deliciousness  of  this  bright  day, 

That’s  like  a heart  with  nothing  to  conceal ; 

The  young  leaves  scarcely  trembling  ; the  blue- 
grey 

Rimming  the  cloudless  ether  far  away; 

Brairds,  hedges,  shadows;  mountains  that  reveal 
Soft  sapphire  ; this  great  floor  of  polish’d  steel 
Spread  out  amidst  the  landmarks  of  the  bay. 

I stoop  in  sunshine  to  our  circling  net 
From  the  black  gunwale  ; tend  these  milky  kine 
Up  their  rough  path  ; sit  by  yon  cottage-door 
Plying  the  diligent  thread ; take  wings  and 
soar  — 

O hark,  how  with  the  season’s  laureate 
Joy  culminates  in  song!  If  such  a song  were 
mine ! 


VII. 


THREE  FLOWERS. 

A Pilgrim  light  for  travel  bound 
Tript  through  a gay  parterre ; 

The  cool  fresh  dew  was  on  the  ground, 
The  lark’s  song  in  the  air. 

One  bud,  where  free  of  cloud  or  mist 
Heaven’s  colour  did  unfold, 

He  claim’d  with  joy  and  fondly  kiss’d, 
And  next  his  heart  will  hold. 

How  happy ! might  the  tender  thing, 

The  blue  delightful  blossom, 

Have  kept  the  sweetness  of  its  Spring, 
Nor  wither’d  in  his  bosom! 

He  strode  along  through  cultured  fields, 
By  manly  contest  won, 

And  bless’d  the  sylvan  bow’r  that  shields 
From  rage  of  noontide  sun  ; 


THREE  FLOWERS. 


157 


But  spied  aloft  a rich  red  bloom, 

And,  good  or  evil  hap, 

The  slippery  precipice  he  clomb 
To  set  it  in  his  cap. 

Then  forward,  forward  proudly  flies, 
Too  swift  and  proud  for  heeding 
How  leaf  by  leaf  his  vaunted  prize 
May  scatter  in  the  speeding ! 

Across  a moorland  crept  his  way ; 

The  heather  far  and  near 
Steep’d  in  the  solemn  sinking  day, 

And  the  sad  waning  year. 

His  bent  regard  descries  a flow’r, 

One  little  cup  of  snow, 

Whose  mystic  fragrance  hath  the  pow’r 
To  bring  him  kneeling  low. 

All  on  the  ground  he  dropt  asleep ; 

The  grasses  grew  to  hide  him. 

Above  unrolls  the  starry  deep ; 

A white  flower  waits  beside  him. 


vm. 


SONG,  IN  THE  DUSK. 

O welcome  ! friendly  stars,  one  by  one,  two  by 
two ; 

And  the  voices  of  the  waterfall  are  toning  in 
the  air ; 

Whilst  the  wavy  landscape-outlines  are  blurr’d 
with  falling  dew ; 

As  my  rapture  is  with  sadness,  because  I may 
not*  share, 

And  double  it  by  sharing  it  with  thee. 

— Cloudy  fire  dies  away  on  the  sea. 

Now  the  calm  shadowy  earth  she  lies  musing 
like  a saint; 

She  is  wearing  for  a halo  the  pure  circlet  of 
the  moon ; 


SONG,  IN  THE  DUSK. 


159 


From  the  mountain  breathes  the  night-wind, 
steadily,  though  faint, 

As  my  breathing  when  I whisper,  “ Ah ! might 
some  heav’nly  boon 

Bestow  thee,  my  belov’d  one,  to  my  side ! ” 
— Like  a full,  happy  heart  flows  the  tide. 


IX. 


ST.  MARGARET’S  EYE. 

I built  my  castle  upon  the  sea-side, 
The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0,  * 

Half  on  the  land  and  half  in  the  tide, 
Love  me  true  / 

Within  was  silk,  without  was  stone, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0, 

It  lacks  a queen,  and  that  alone, 

Love  me  true! 

The  grey  old  harper  sung  to  me, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0, 

Beware  of  the  damsel  of  the  sea ! 

Love  me  true  ! 

Saint  Margaret’s  Eve  it  did  befal, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0, 

The  tide  came  creeping  up  the  wall, 
Love  me  true! 


ST.  MARGARET’S  EVE. 


161 


I open’d  my  gate ; who  there  should  stand  — 
The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0, 

But  a fair  lady,  with  a cup  in  her  hand, 
Love  me  true  ! 

The  cup  was  gold,  and  full  of  wine, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0 , 

Drink,  said  the  lady,  and  I will  be  thine, 
Love  me  true! 

Enter  my  castle,  lady  fair, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0 , 

You  shall  be  queen  of  all  that’s  there, 

Love  me  true  ! 

A grey  old  harper  sung  to  me, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0, 

Beware  of  the  damsel  of  the  sea ! 

Love  me  true! 

In  hall  he  harpeth  many  a year, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0 , 

And  we  will  sit  his  song  to  hear, 

Love  me  true  ! 

11 


I 


162 


ST.  MARGARET’S  EVE. 


I love  thee  deep,  I love  thee  true, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0, 

But  ah ! I know  not  how  to  woo, 

Love  me  true  ! 

Down  dash'd  the  cup,  with  a sudden  shock, 
The  leaves  roll  so  gaily  0, 

The  wine  like  blood  ran  over  the  rock, 
Love  me  true  ! 

She  said  no  word,  but  shriek’d  aloud, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0 , 

And  vanish’d  away  from  where  she  stood, 
Love  me  true! 

I lock’d  and  barr’d  my  castle-door, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0, 

Three  summer  days  I grieved  sore, 

Love  me  true  ! 

For  myself  a day  and  night, 

The  waves  roll  so  gaily  0, 

And  two  to  moan  that  lady  bright, 

Love  me  true  ! 


? 


J 

i 


X. 

AN  AUTUMN  EVENING. 

Now  is  Queen  Autumn’s  progress  through  the 
land ; 

And  all  her  sunbrown  subjects  are  astir, 
Preparing  loyally  on  every  hand 

A golden  triumph.  Earth  is  glad  of  her. 

Those  regal  curtain  ings  of  cloud  on  high, 

And  shifting  splendours  of  the  vaulted  air, 
Express  a jubilation  in  the  sky, 

That  nobly  in  the  festival  doth  share. 

With  arching  garlands  of  unfinger’d  green, 

And  knots  of  fruit,  a bower  each  highway 
shows ; 

Loud  busy  Joy  is  herald  on  the  scene 
To  Gratitude,  Contentment,  and  Repose. 

Lately,  when  this  good  time  was  at  its  best, 

One  evening  found  me,  with  half-wearied  pace, 


164  AN  AFTUfoN  EVENING. 

Mounting  a hill  aganst  the  lighted  West, 

A cool  air  softly.  \&Wing  on  n)y  face. 

The  vast  and  gorgeous  pomp  of  silent  sky 
Embathed  a harvest  realm  in  double  gold; 
Sheaf-tented  fields  of  bloodless  victory ; 

Stackyards  and  cottages  in  leafy  fold, 

"Whence  climb’d  the  blue  smoke-pillars ; grassy 
hill 

And  furrow’d  land  their  graver  colourings  * 
lent ; * 

And  some  few  rows  of  corn,  ungather’d  still, 

Like  aged  men  to  earth,  their  cradle,  bent. 

While  reapers,  gleaners,  and  full  carts  of  grain, 
With  undisturbing  motion  and  faint  sound 
Fed  the  rich  calm,  o’er  all  the  sumptuous 
plain ; 

Mountains,  imbued  with  violet,  were  its  bound. 

Among  the  sheaves  and  hedges  of  the  slope, 

And  harvest-people,  I descended  slowly, 

Field  after  field,  and  reach’d  a pleasant  group 
On  their  own  land,  who  were  not  strangers 
wholly. 


AN  AUTUMN  EVENING. 


165 


Here  stood  the  Farmer,  sturdy  man  though 

g^y, 

In  sober  parley  with  his  second  son, 

Who  had  been  reaping  in  the  rank  all  day, 

And  now  resumed  his  coat,  for  work  was 
done. 

Two  girls,  like  half-blown  roses  twin,  that 
breathed 

The  joy  of  youth  untroubled  with  a care, 

Laugh’d  to  their  five-year  nephew,  as  he 
wreathed 

Red  poppies  through  his  younger  sister’s 
hair. 

Their  homestead  bounds  received  me  with  the 
rest  ^ 

The  cheerful  mother  waiting  at  the  door 

Had  smiles  for  all,  and  welcome  for  the  guest, 

And  bustling  sought  the  choicest  of  her  store. 

O gentle  rustic  roof!  luxurious  board ! 

Kind  eyes,  frank  voices,  mirth  and  sense  were 
there ; 

Love  that  went  deep,  and  piety  that  soar’d; 

The  children’s  kisses  and  the  evening  pray’r. 


166 


AN  AUTUMN  EVENING. 


Earth’s  common  pleasures,  near  the  ground  like 
grass, 

Are  best  of  all ; nor  die  although  they  fade : 
Dear,  simple  household  joys,  that  straightway 
pass 

The  precinct  of  devotion,  undismay’d. 

Returning  homeward,  soften’d,  raised,  and  still’d ; 

Celestial  peace,  that  rare,  transcendant  boon, 
Fill’d  all  my  soul,  as  heav’n  and  earth  were 
filled 

With  bright  perfection  of  the  Harvest  Moon. 


XI. 


iEOLIAN  HARR 
O pale  green  sea, 

With  long  pale  purple  clouds  above  — 

What  lies  in  me  like  weight  of  love  ? 

What  dies  in  me 

With  utter  grief,  because  there  comes  no  sign 
Through  the  sun-raying  West,  or  on  the  dim 
searline  ? 

O salted  air, 

Blown  round  the  rocky  headlands  chill  — 

What  calls  me  there  from  cove  and  hill  ? 

What  falls  me  fair 

From  Thee,  the  first-born  of  the  youthful  night  ? 
Or  in  the  waves  is  coming  through  the  dusk 
twilight  ? 


168 


iEOLIAN  HARP. 


O yellow  star, 

Quivering  upon  the  rippling  tide  — 

Sendest  so  far  to  one  that  sigh’d  ? 

Bendest  thou,  Star, 

Above  where  shadows  of  the  dead  have  rest 
And  constant  silence,  with  a message  fror  thv 
blest  ? 


xn. 


THE  GIRL’S  LAMENTATION. 

( To  an  old  Irish  Tune.) 

With  grief  and  mourning  I sit  to  spin  ; 

My  Love  pass’d  by,  and  lie  didn’t  come  in; 
He  passes  by  me,  both  day  and  night, 

And  carries  off  my  poor  heart’s  delight. 

There  is  a tavern  in  yonder  town, 

My  Love  goes  there  and  he  spends  a crown, 
He  takes  a strange  girl  upon  his  knee, 

*And  never  more  gives  a thought  to  me. 

Says  he,  “ We’ll  wed  without  loss  of  time, 
And  sure  our  love’s  but  a little  crime  ; ” — 
My  apron-string  now  it’s  wearing  short, 

And  my  Love  he  seeks  other  girls  to  court. 

O with  him  I’d  go  if  I had  my  will, 

I’d  follow  him  barefoot  o’er  rock  and  hill; 

I’d  never  once  speak  of  all  my  grief 
If  he’d  give  me  a smile  for  my  heart’s  relief. 


170 


THE  GIRL’S  LAMENTATION. 


Iii  our  wee  garden  the  rose  unfolds, 
With  bachelor’s-buttons,  and  marigolds; 
I’ll  tie  no  posies  for  dance  or  fair, 

A willow  twig  is  for  me  to  wear. 


For  a maid  again  I can  never  be, 

Till  the  red  rose  blooms  on  the  willow-tree. 
Of  such  a trouble  I heard  them  tell, 

And  now  I know  what  it  means  full"  well. 

As  through  the  long  lonesome  night  I lie, 

I’d  give  the  world  if  I might  but  cry; 

But  I mustn’t  moan  there  or  raise  my  voice, 
And  the  tears  run  down  without  any  noise. 

And  what,  O what  will  my  mother  say  ? 
She’ll  wish  her  daughter  was  in  the  clay. 

My  father  will  curse  me  to  my  face  ; 

The  . neighbours  will  know  of  my  black 
grace. 

My  sister’s  buried  three  years,  come  Lent ; 
But  sure  we  made  far  too  much  lament. 
Beside  her  grave  they  still  say  a prayer  — 

I wish  to  God  it  was  I was  there ! 


THE  GIRL'S  LAMENTATION. 


171 


The  Candlemas  crosses  hang  near  my  bed ; 

To  look  on  them  puts  me  much  in  dread ; 

They  mark  the  good  time  that’s  gone  and  past: 
It’s  like  this  year’s  one  will  prove  the  last. 

The  oldest  cross  it’s  a dusty  brown, 

But  the  winter  winds  didn’t  shake  it  down  ; 

The  newest  cross  keeps  the  colour  bright, — 
When  the  straw  was  reaping  my  heart  was  light. 

The  reapers  rose  with  the  blink  of  morn, 

And  gaily  stook’d  up  the  yellow  corn, 

To  call  them  home  to  the  field  I’d  run, 

Through  the  blowing  breeze  and  the  summer 
sun. 

When  the  straw  was  weaving  my  heart  was  glad, 
For  neither  sin  nor  shame  I had, 

In  the  barn  where  oat-chaff  was  flying  round, 
And  the  thumping  flails  made  a pleasant  sound 

Now  summer  or  winter  to  me  it’s  one ; 

But  oh  ! for  a day  like  the  time  that’s  gone. 

I’d  little  care  was  it  storm  or  shine, 

If  I had  but  peace  in  this  heart  of  mine. 


172  THE  GIRL'S  LAMENTATION. 

* 

Oli ! light  and  false  is  a young  man’s  kiss, 

And  a foolish  girl  gives  her  soul  for  this. 

Oh  ! light  and  short  is  the  young  man’s  blame, 
And  a helpless  girl  has  the  grief  and  shame. 

To  the  river-bank  once  I thought  to  go, 

And  cast  myself  in  the  stream  below ; 

I thought  ’twould  carry  us  far  out  to  sea, 

Where  they’d  never  find  my  poor  babe  and  me. 

Sweet  Lord,  forgive  me  that  wicked  mind! 

You  know  I used  to  be  well-inclined. 

Oh,  take  compassion  upon  my  state, 

Because  my  trouble  is  so  very  great ! 

My  head  turns  round  with  the  spinning-wheel, 
And  a heavy  cloud  on  my  eyes  I feel. 

But  the  worst  of  all  is  at  my  heart’s  core ; 

For  my  innocent  days  will  come  back  no  more. 

[Note.  In  some  parts  of  Ireland  (I  have  seen  it  near 
Bally  shannon  and  heard  of  it  elsewhere)  is  a custom  of 
weaving  a small  cross  of  straw  at  Candlemas,  which  is 
hung  up  in  the  cottage,  sometimes  over  a bed.  A new 
one  is  added  every  year,  and  the  old  are  left  till  they  fall 
to  pieces.] 


XIII. 


WISHING. 

A child’s  song. 

Ring-ting!  I wish  I were  a Primrose, 

A bright  yellow  Primrose  blowing  in  the  Spring 
The  stooping  boughs  above  me, 

The  wandering  bee  to  love  me, 

The  fern  and  moss  to  creep  across, 

And  the  Elm-tree  for  our  king! 

Nay  — stay ! I wish  I were  an  Elm-tree, 

A great  lofty  Elm-tree,  with  green  leaves  gay  ! 
The  winds  would  set  them  dancing, 

The  sun  and  moonshine  glance  in, 

The  birds  would  house  among  the  boughs, 
And  sweetly  sing. 

O — no  ! I wish  I were  a Robin, 

A Robin  or  a little  Wren,  everywhere  to  go; 


174 


WISHING. 


Through  forest,  field,  or  garden, 

And  ask  no  leave  or  pardon, 

Till  Winter  comes  with  icy  thumbs 
To  ruffle  up  our  wing ! 

Well  — tell!  Where  should  I fly  to, 
Where  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark  wood  or  dell  ? 
Before  a day  was  over, 

Home  comes  the  rover, 

For  Mother’s  kiss,  — sweeter  this 
Than  any  other  thing. 


XIV. 


THE  SAILOR. 

A ROMAIC  BALLAD. 

Thou  that  hast  a daughter 
For  one  to  woo  and  wed, 

Give  her  to  a husband 

With  snow  upon  his  head; 

Oh,  give  her  to  an  old  man, 
Though  little  joy  it  be, 

Before  the  best  young  sailor 
That  sails  upon  the  sea! 

How  luckless  is  the  sailor 
When  sick  and  like  to  die ; 

He  sees  no  tender  mother, 

No  sweetheart  standing  by. 

Only  the  captain  speaks  to  him, — 
Stand  up,  stand  up,  young  man, 
And  steer  the  ship  to  haven, 

As  none  beside  thee  can. 


76 


THE  SAILOR. 


Thou  sayst  to  me,  “ Stand  up,  stand  up ; ” 

I say  to  thee,  take  hold, 

Lift  me  a little  from  the  deck, 

* 

My  hands  and  feet  are  cold. 

And  let  my  head,  I pray  thee, 

With  handkerchiefs  be  bound ; 

There,  take  my  love’s  gold  handkerchief, 
And  tie  it  tightly  round. 

Now  bring  the  chart,  the  doleful  chart; 

See,  where  these  mountains  meet  — 

The  clouds  are  thick  around  their  head, 
The  mists  around  their  feet : 

Cast  anchor  here  ; ’tis  deep  and  safe 
Within  the  rocky  cleft; 

The  little  anchor  on  the  right, 

The  great  one  on  the  left. 

And  now  to  thee^O  captain, 

Most  earnestly  I pray, 

That  they  may  never  bury  me 
In  church  or  cloister  gray ; — 

But  on  the  windy  sea-beach, 

At  the  ending  of  the  land, 

All  on  the  surfy  sea-beach, 

Deep  down  into  the  sand. 


THE  SAILOR. 


177 


For  there  will  come  the  sailors, 
Their  voices  I shall  hear, 

And  at  casting  of  the  anchor 
The  yo-ho  loud  and  clear ; 

And  at  hauling  of  the  anchor 
The  yo-ho  and  the  cheer, — 
Farewell,  my  love,  for  to  thy  bay 
I nevermore  may  steer! 


12 


XV. 


THE  LULLABY. 

I saw  two  children  hush'd  to  death, 

In  lap  of  One  with  silver  wings, 
Hearkening  a lute,  whose  latest  breath 
Low  linger’d  on  the  trembling  strings. 

Her  face  is  very  pale  and  fair, 

Her  hooded  eyelids  darkly  shed 
Celestial  love,  and  all  her  hair 
Is  like  a crown  around  her  head. 

Each  ripple  sinking  in  its  place, 

Along  the  lute’s  faint-ebbing  strain, 
Seems  echo’d  slowlier  from  her  face, 
And  echo’d  back  from  theirs  again. 


Yes,  now  is  silence.  Ho  not  weep. 

Her  eyes  are  fix’d : observe  them  long-, 
And  spell,  if  thou  canst  pierce  so  deep, 
The  purpose  of  a nobler  song.* 


XVI. 


OUR  MOUNTAIN. 

All  hail  to  our  Mountain ! form  well-known, 
His  skirts  of  heath,  and  his  scalp  of  stone, 
Guardian  of  streams  in  their  headlong  youth, 
That  rise  in  spate  or  dwindle  in  drouth, — 
Who  sets  o’er  the  clouds  an  Olympian  seat 
Where  thunder  is  roll’d  beneath  our  feet, 
Where  storm  and  lightning 
And  sunshine  bright’ning 
Solemnly  girdle  our  steep  retreat ! 

A Day  on  the  Hills ! — true  king  am  I, 

In  my  solitude,  public  to  earth  and  sky. 

Fret  inhales  not  this  atmosphere, 

Wing’d  thoughts  only  can  follow  here, 

Folly  and  falsehood  and  babble  stay 
In  the  ground-smoke  somewhere,  far  away. 
Let  them  greet  and  cheat 
In  the  narrow  street, — - 
Who  cares  what  all  the  newspapers  say ! 


180 


OUR  MOUNTAIN. 


O ! the  tyrant  eagle’s  palace  to  share, 

To  possess  the  haunts  of  the  shy  brown  hare, 
And  a thousand  fields  with  their  lakes  a-shine, 
And  hamlets,  and  towns,  and  the  ocean  line, 
And  beechen  valley,  and  bilberry  dell, 

And  glen  where  the  Echoes  and  Fairies  dwell, 
With  heaps  and  bosses 
Of  plume-fern  and  mosses, 

Scarlet  rowan  and  slight  blue-bell ! 

Plume-ferns  grow  by  the  Waterfall, 

Wide  in  the  shimmering  spray  and  tall, 

Where  the  ash-twigs  tremble,  one  and  all, 

And  cool  air  murmurs,  and  wild  birds  call, 
And  the  glowing  crag  lifts  a dizzy  wall 
To  the  blue,  through  green  leaves’  coronal, 
And  foam- bells  twinkle 
Where  sunlights  sprinkle 
The  deep  dark  pool  of  the  waterfall. 

I sit  with  the  Shepherd  Boy  an  hour, 

By  a grey  cliff’s  foot,  on  the  heather-flow’r, 
Simple  of  life  as  his  nibbling  sheep 
Dotted  far  down  the  verdant  steep ; 

I climb  the  path  which  sometimes  fails 
A peasant  bound  to  more  distant  val&s, 


OUR  MOUNTAIN. 


181 


When  Night,  descending, 

The  world  is  blending, 

Or  fog,  or  the  rushing  blast  assails. 

My  feast  on  a marble  block  is  spread, 

I dip  my  cup  in  a cold  well-head. 

The  poet’s  page  is  strong  and  fine, 

I read  a new  volume  in  one  old  line, 

Leap  up  for  joy,  and  kiss  the  book ; 

Then  gaze  far  forth  from  my  lofty  nook, 

With  fresh  surprise, 

And  yearning  eyes 

To  drink  the  whole  beauty  in  one  deep  look. 

From  these  towers  the  first  grey  dawn  is  spied, 
They  watch  the  last  glimmer  of  eventide, 

Wear  shadows  at  noon,  or  vapoury  shrouds, 

And  meet  in  council  with  mighty  clouds ; 

And  at  dusk  the  ascending  stars  appear 
On  their  pinnacle  crags,  or  the  chill  moon-sphere 
Whitening  only 
Summits  lonely, 

Circled  with  gulfs  of  blackest  fear. 

When  ripe  and  dry  is  the  heathery  husk, 

Some  eve,  like  a judgment-flame  through  the  dusk, 


182 


OUR  MOUNTAIN. 


It  burns  the  dim  line  of  a huger  dome 
Than  is  clad  in  the  paschal  blaze  of  Rome, 

And  to  valley,  river,  and  larch-grove  spires, 
Signals  with  creeping  scarlet  fires, 

Keen  o’erpowering 
Embers  cowering 

Low  where  the  western  flush  retires. 

But  the  stern  dark  days  with  mutter  and  moan 
Gather,  like  foes  round  a hated  throne ; 

Terror  is  peal’d  in  the  trumpet  gale, 

Crash’d  on  the  cymbals  of  the  hail, 

Vapours  move  in  a turbulent  host, 

Cave  and  rift  hold  daggers  of  frost, 

And  silently  white 
In  some  morning’s  light 
Stands  the  conquer’d  mountain,  a wintry  ghost. 

Till  pack’d  in  the  hollows  the  round  clouds  lie, 
And  the  wild-geese  flow  changing  down  the 
sky 

To  the  salt  sea-fringe;  then  milder  rains 
Course  like  young  blood  through  the  wither’d 
veins 

That  sweeping  March  left  wasted  and  weak; 
And  the  grey  old  Presence,  dim  and  bleak, 


OUR  MOUNTAIN. 


183 


With  sudden  rally 
By  mound  and  valley 

Laughs  with  green  light  to  his  baldest  peak! 

Thy  soft  blue  greeting  through  distant  air 
Is  home’s  first  smile  to  the  traveller,  — 
Mountain,  from  thee,  home’s  last  farewell. 

In  alien  lands  there  are  tales  to  tell 
Of  thy  haunted  lough,  and  elvish  ring, 

And  cairn  of  the  old  Milesian  king, 

And  the  crumbling  turrets 
Where  miser  spirits 
Batlike  in  vaults  of  treasure  cling. 

Giant ! of  mystical,  friendly  brow ; 

Protector  of  childhood’s  landscape  thou; 

Long  golden  seasons  with  thee  abide, 

And  the  joy  of  song,  and  history’s  pride. 

Of  all  Earth’s  hills  I love  thee  best, 

Reckon  from  thee  mine  east  and  west ; 
Fondly  praying, 

Wherever  straying, 

To  leave  in  thy  shadow  my  bones  at  rest. 


XVII. 


MORNING  PLUNGE. 

I scatter  the  dreams  of  the  pillow 
To  spring  to  a sunshiny  floor ; 

O welcome ! you  glittering  billow, 

Whose  surf  almost  reaches  our  door 

The  cliff  with  its  cheerful  adorning 
Of  matted  sea-pink  under  foot, — 

The  lark  gives  me  “ top  o’  the  morning  l ” 
The  sailing-boat  nods  a salute. 


Already,  with  ocean-born  graces, 

Comes  many  a bright-featured  maid, 
Peep  children’s  damp  hair  and  fresh  faces 
From  straw  hat’s  or  sun-bonnet’s  shade. 

Green  crystal  in  exquisite  tremble, 

My  tide-brimming  pool  I behold  ; 

What  shrimps  on  the  sand-patch  assemble ! 
— I vanish ! embraced  with  pure  cold. 


MORNING  PLUNGE. 


185 


A king  of  the  morning-time’s  treasures, 

To  revel  in  water  and  air, 

Join  salmon  and  gull  in  their  pleasures, 
Then  home  to  our  sweet  human  fare. 

There  stand  the  blue  cups  on  white  table, 
Rich  nugget  of  gold  from  the  hive, 

And  there’s  uncle  George  and  Miss  Mabel, 
And  Kitty,  the  best  child  alive ! 

Now  two  little  arms  round  my  neck  fast, 

A kiss  from  a laugh  I must  win, — 

You  don’t  deserve  one  bit  of  bi^akfast. 
You  unbaptized  people  within  ! 


XVIII. 


THE  BIRD. 

A child’s  song. 

u Birdie,  Birdie,  will  you  pet  ? 

Summer  is  far  and  far  away  yet. 

You’ll  have  silken  quilts  and  a velvet  bed, 
And  a pillow  of  satin  for  your  head!” 

u Td  rather  sleep  in  the  ivy  wall ; 

No  rain  comes  through,  tho’  I hear  it  fall; 
The  sun  peeps  gay  at  dawn  of  day, 

And  I sing,  and  wing  away,  away ! ” 

“ O Birdie,  Birdie,  will  you  pet  ? 
Diamond-stones  and  amber  and  jet 
We’ll  string  on  a necklace  fair  and  fine, 

To  please  this  pretty  bird  of  mine  ! ” 

“ O thanks  for  diamonds,  and  thanks  for  jet, 
But  here  is  something  daintier  yet,  — 


THE  BIRD. 


187 


A feather-necklace  round  and  round, 

That  I wouldn’t  sell  for  a'  thousand  pound  ! ” 

“ O Birdie,  Birdie,  wont  you  pet  ? 

We’ll  buy  you  a dish  of  silver  fret, 

A golden  cup  and  an  ivory  seat, 

And  carpets  soft  beneath  your  feet ! ” 

“ Can  running  water  be  drunk  from  gold  ? 
Can  a silver  dish  the  forest  hold? 

A rocking  twig  is  the  finest  chair, 

And  the  softest  paths  lie  through  the  air,  — 
Goodbye,  goodbye  to  my  lady  fair ! ” 


XIX. 


A BOY’S  BURIAL. 

On  a sunny  Saturday  evening 
They  laid  him  in  his  grave, 

When  the  sycamore  had  not  a shaking  leaf, 
And  the  harbour  not  a wave. 

The  sandhills  lay  in  the  yellow  ray 
Ripe  with  the  sadness  of  parting  May ; 

Sad  were  the  mountains  blue  and  lone 
That  keep  the  landscape  as  their  own ; 

The  rocky  slope  of  the  distant  fell ; 

The  river  issuing  from  the  dell ; — 

And  when  had  ended  the  voice  of  pray’r 
The  Fall’s  deep  bass  was  left  on  the  air, 

Rolling  down. 

Young  he  was  and  hopeful, 

And  ah,  to  die  so  soon  ! 

His  new  grave  lies  deserted 
At  the  rising  of  the  moon ; 


A boy’s  burial. 


189 


But  when  morn  comes  round,  and  the  church 
bells  sound, 

The  little  children  may  sit  on  the  mound, 

And  talk  of  him,  and  as  they  talk, 

Puff  from  the  dandelion  stalk 
Its  feathery  globe,  that  reckons  best 
Their  light-wing’d  hours ; — while  the  town  is  at 
rest, 

And  the  stone-chacker  rattles  here  and  there, 
And  the  glittering  Fall  makes  a tune  in  the  air, 
Rolling  down. 


XX. 


ON  THE  SUNNY  SHORE. 

Checquer’d  with  woven  shadows  as  I lay 
Among  the  grass,  blinking  the  watery  gleam ; 

I saw  an  Echo- Spirit  in  his  bay, 

Most  idly  floating  in  the  noontide  beam. 

Slow  heaved  his  filmy  skiff*,  and  fell,  with  sway 
Of  Ocean’s  giant  pulsing,  and  the  Dream, 
Buoy’d  like  the  young  moon  on  a level 
stream 

Of  greenish  vapour  at  decline  of  day, 

Swam  airily,  — watching  the  distant  flocks 
Of  sea-gulls,  whilst  a foot  in  careless  sweep 
Touch’d  the  clear-trembling  cool  with  tiny 
shocks, 

Faint-circling ; till  at  last  he  dropt  asleep 
Lull’d  by  the  hush-song  of  the  glittering  deep 
Lap-lapping  drowsily  those  heated  rocks. 


XXL 


THE  NOBLEMAN’S  WEDDING. 

{To  an  old  Irish  Tune.) 

Once  I was  guest  at  a Nobleman’s  wedding; 
Fair  was  the  Bride,  but  she  scarce  had  been 
kind ; 

And  now  in  our  mirth,  she  had  tears  nigh  the 
shedding ; 

Her  former  true  lover  still  runs  in  her  mind. 

Clothed  like  a minstrel,  her  former  true  lover 
Has  taken  his  harp  up,  and  tuned  all  the 
strings  ; 

There  among  strangers,  his  grief  to  discover, 

A fair  maiden’s  falsehood  he  bitterly  sings. 

u O here  is  the  token  of  gold  that  was  broken ; 
Through  seven  long  years  it  was  kept  for  your 
sake ; 


192 


THE  NOBLEMAN’S  WEDDING. 


You  gave  it  to  me  as  a true  lover’s  token ; 

No  longer  I’ll  wear  it,  asleep  or  awake.” 

She  sat  in  her  place  by  the  head  of  the  table,  * 
The  words  of  his  ditty  she  mark’d  them  right 
well ; 

To  sit  any  longer  this  bride  was  not  able, 

So  down,  in  a faint,  from  the  carved  chair 
she  fell. 

“ O one,  one  request,  my  lord,  one  and  no 
other, 

O this  one  request  will  you  grant  it  to  me  ? 

To  lie  for  this  night  in  the  arms  of  my  mother, 
And  ever,  and  ever,  thereafter  with  thee.” 

Her  one  one  request  it  was  granted  her  fairly; 
Pale  were  her  cheeks  as  she  went  up  to  bed ; 

And  the  very  next  morning,  early,  early, 

They  rose  and  they  found  this  young  bride 
was  dead. 

The  bridegroom  ran  quickly,  he  held  her,  he 
kiss’d  her, 

He  spoke  loud  and  low,  and  listen’d  full 
fain ; 


THE  NOBLEMAN’S  WEDDING. 


193 


He  call’d  on  her  waiting-maids  round  to  assist 
her, 

But  nothing  could  bring  the  lost  breath  back 
again. 

O carry  her  softly!  the  grave  is  made  ready; 

At  head  and  at  foot  plant  a laurel-bush  green ; 
For  she  was  a young  and  a sweet  noble  lady, 
The  fairest  young  bride  that  I ever  have  seen. 


13 


XXII. 


WOULD  I KNEW! 

Plays  a child  in  a garden  fair 
Where  the  demigods  are  walking; 
Playing  unsuspected  there 
As  a bird  within  the  air, 

Listens  to  their  wondrous  talking : 
“Would  I knew  — would  I knew 
WThat  it  is  they  say  and  do ! ” 

Stands  a youth  at  city-gate, 

Sees  the  knights  go  forth  together, 
Parleying  superb,  elate, 

Pair  by  pair  in  princely  state, 

Lance  and  shield  and  haughty  feather 
“ Would  I knew  — would  I knew 
What  it  is  they  say  and  do!” 

Bends  a man  with  trembling  knees 
By  a gulf  of  cloudy  border; 


WOULD  I KNEW  ! 


Deaf,  he  hears  no  voice  from  these 
Winged  shades  he  dimly  sees 
Passing  by  in  solemn  order  : 

“ Would  I knew  — O would  I knew 
What  it  is  they  say  and  do  I ” 


XXIII. 

BY  THE  MORNING  SEA. 

The  wind  shakes  up  the  sleepy  clouds 
To  kiss  the  ruddied  Morn, 

And  from  their  awful  misty  shrouds 
The  mountains  are  new-born  : 

The  Sea  lies  fresh  with  open  eyes; 

Night-fears  and  moaning  dreams, 
Brooding  like  clouds  on  nether  skies, 
Have  sunk  below,  and  beams 
Dance  on  the  floor  like  golden  flies, 

Or  strike  with  joyful  gleams 
Some  white-wing’d  ship,  a wandering  star 
Of  Ocean,  piloting  afar. 

In  brakes,  in  woods,  in  cottage-eaves, 

The  early  birds  are  rife, 

Quick  voices  thrill  the  sprinkled  leaves 
In  ecstasy  of  life ; 


BY  THE  MORNING  SEA. 


197 


With  silent  gratitude  of  flowers 
The  morning’s  breath  is  sweet, 

And  cool  with  dew,  that  freshly  showers 
Round  wild  things’  hasty  feet. 

But  the  heavenly  guests  of  tranquil  hours 
To  inner  skies  retreat, 

From  human  thoughts  of  lower  birth 
That  stir  upon  the  waking  earth. 

Across  a thousand  leagues  of  land 
The  mighty  Sun  looks  free, 

And  in  their  fringe  of  rock  or  sand 
A thousand  leagues  of  sea. 

Lo ! I,  in  this  majestic  room, 

As  real  as  the  Sun, 

Inherit  this  day  and  its  doom 
Eternally  begun. 

A world  of  men  the  rays  illume, 

God’s  men,  and  I am  one. 

But  life  that  is  not  pure  and  bold 
Doth  tarnish  every  morning’s  gold. 


XXIV. 

THE  MAIDS  OF  ELFIN-MERE. 

‘Twas  when  the  spinning-room  was  here, 

There  came  Three  Damsels  clothed  in  white, 
With  their  spindles  every  night ; 

Two  and  one,  and  Three  fair  Maidens, 

Spinning  to  a pulsing  cadence, 

Singing  songs  of  Elfin-Mere; 

Till  the  eleventh  hour  was  toll’d, 

Then  departed  through  the  wold. 

Years  ago , and  years  ago; 

And  the  tall  reeds  sigh  as  the  wind  doth  How . 

Three  white  Lilies,  calm  and  clear, 

And  they  were  loved  by  every  one; 

Most  of  all,  the  Pastor’s  Son, 

Listening  to  their  gentle  singing, 

Felt  his  heart  go  from  him,  clinging 
Round  these  Maids  of  Elfin-Mere ; 


THE  MAIDS  OF  ELFIN-MERE. 


199 


Sued  eacli  night  to  make  them  stay, 

Sadden’d  when  they  went  away. 

Years  ago , and  years  ago  ; 

And  the  tall  reeds  sigh  as  the  wind  doth  blow. 

Hands  that  shook  with  love  and  fear 
Dared  put  back  the  village  clock, — 

Flew  the  spindle,  turn’d  the  rock, 

Flow’d  the  song  with  subtle  rounding, 

Till  the  false  “ eleven  ” was  sounding ; 

Then  these  Maids  of  Elfin-Mere 
Swiftly,  softly,  left  the  room, 

Like  three  doves  on  snowy  plume. 

Years  ago , and  years  ago  ; 

And  the  tall  reeds  sigh  as  the  wind  doth  blow. 

One  that  night  who  wander’d  near 
Heard  lamentings  by  the  shore, 

Saw  at  dawn  three  stains  of  gore 
In  the  waters  fade  and  dwindle. 

Nevermore  with  song  and  spindle 
Saw  we  Maids  of  Elfin-Mere. 

The  Pastor’s  Son  did  pine  and  die : 

Because  true  love  should  never  lie. 

Years  ago , and  years  ago; 

And  the  tall  reeds  sigh  as  the  wind  doth  blow. 


XXV. 

A VALENTINE. 

Lady  fair,  lady  fair, 

Seated  with  the  scornful, 

Though  your  beauty  be  so  rare, 

I were  but  a born  fool 
Still  to  seek  my  pleasure  there. 

To  love  your  features  and  your  hue, 
All  your  glowing  beauty, 

All  in  short  that’s  good  of  you, 

Was  and  is  my  duty, 

As  to  love  all  beauty  too. 

But  now  a fairer  face  I’ve  got, 

A Picture’s  — and  believe  me, 

I never  look’d  to  you  for  what 
A picture  cannot  give  me: 

What  you’ve  more,  improves  you  not. 


A VALENTINE. 


201 


Your  queenly  lips  can  speak,  and  prove 
The  means  of  you  uncrowning ; 

Your  brow  can  change,  your  eyes  can  move, 
Which  grants  you  power  of  frowning ; 

Hers  have  Heav’n’s  one  thought,  of  Love. 

So  now  I give  good-bye,  ma  belle , 

And  lose  no  great  good  by  it ; 

You’re  fair,  yet  I can  smile  farewell, 

As  you  must  shortly  sigh  it, 

To  your  bright,  light  outer  shell ! 


XXVI. 


UNDER  THE  GRASS. 

Where  these  green  mounds  o’erlook  the  min- 
gling Erne 

And  salt  Atlantic,  clay  that  walk’d  as  Man 
A thousand  years  ago,  some  Yikin  stern, 

May  rest,  or  chieftain  high  of  nameless  clan ; 
And  when  my  dusty  remnant  shall  return 
To  the  great  passive  World,  and  nothing  can 
With  eye,  or  lip,  or  finger,  any  more, 

O lay  it  there  too,  by  the  river-shore. 

The  silver  salmon  shooting  up  the  fall, 

Itself  at  once  the  arrow  and  the  bow ; 

The  shadow  of  the  old  quay’s  weedy  wall 
Cast  on  the  shining  turbulence  below; 

The  water-voice  which  ever  seems  to  call 
Far  off  out  of  my  childhood’s  long-ago; 

The  gentle  washing  of  the  harbour  wave ; 

Be  these  the  sights  and  sounds  around  my  grave. 


UNDER  THE  GRASS. 


203 


Soothed  also  with  thy  friendly  beck,  my  town, 
And  near  the  square  grey  tower  within  whose 
shade 

Was  many  of  my  kin’s  last  lying-down  ; 

Whilst,  by  the  broad  heavens  changefully  ar- 
ray’d, 

Empurpling  mountains  its  horizon  crown ; 

And  westward  ’tween  low  hummocks  is  dis- 
play’d 

In  lightsome  hours,  the  level  pale  blue  sea, 

With  sails  upon  it  creeping  silently : 

Or,  other  time,  beyond  that  tawny  sand, 

An  ocean  glooming  underneath  the  shroud 
Drawn  thick  athwart  it  by  tempestuous  hand  ; 

When  like  a mighty  fire  the  bar  roars  loud, 
As  though  the  whole  sea  came  to  whelm  the 
land  — 

The  gull  flies  white  against  the  stormy  cloud, 
And  in  the  weather-gleam  the  breakers  mark 
A ghastly  line  upon  the  waters  dark. 

A green  unfading  quilt  above  be  spread, 

And  freely  round  let  all  the  breezes  blow  ; 
May  children  play  beside  the  breathless  bed, 
Holiday  lasses  by  the  cliff-edge  go ; 


204 


UNDER  THE  GRASS. 


And  manly  games  upon  the  sward  be  sped, 

And  cheerful  boats  beneath  the  headland  row; 
And  be  the  thought,  if  any  rise,  of  me, 

What  happy  soul  might  wish  that  thought  to  be. 


XXVII. 


NANNY’S  SAILOR  LAD. 

Now  fare-you-well ! my  bonny  ship, 

For  I am  for  the  shore. 

The  wave  may  flow,  the  breeze  may  blow, 
They’ll  carry  me  no  more. 

And  all  as  I came  walking 
And  singing  up  the  sand, 

I met  a pretty  maiden, 

I took  her  by  the  hand. 

But  still  she  would  not  raise  her  head, 

A word  she  would  not  speak, 

And  tears  were  on  her  eyelids, 

Dripping  down  her  cheek. 

Now  grieve  you  for  your  father  ? 

Or  husband  might  it  be  ? 

Or  is  it  for  a sweetheart 
That’s  roving  on  the  sea  ? 


206 


nanny’s  sailor  lad. 


It  is  not  for  my  father, 

I have  no  husband  dear, 

But  oh ! I had  a sailor  lad 
And  he  is  lost,  I fear. 

Three  long  years 

I am  grieving  for  his  sake, 

And  when  the  stormy  wind  blows  loud, 

I lie  all  night  awake. 

I caught  her  in  my  arms, 

And  she  lifted  up  her  eyes, 

I kiss’d  her  ten  times  over 
In  the  midst  of  her  surprise. 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up,  my  Nanny, 

And  speak  again  to  me ; 

0 dry  your  tears,  my  darling, 

For  I’ll  go  no  more  to  sea. 

1 have  a love,  a true  true  love, 

And  I have  golden  store, 

The  wave  may  flow,  the  breeze  may  blow, 
They’ll  carry  me  no  more ! 


x 


XXVIII. 


FROST  IN  THE  HOLIDAYS. 

The  time  of  Frost  is  the  time  for  me  ! 

When  the  gay  blood  spins  through  the  heart 
with  glee, 

"When  the  voice  leaps  out  with  a chiming  sound, 
And  the  footstep  rings  on  the  musical  ground; 
When  the  earth  is  gray,  and  the  air  is  bright, 
And  every  breath  a new  delight ! 

While  Yesterday  sank,  full  soon,  to  rest, 

What  a glorious  sky ! — through  the  level  west 
Pink  clouds  in  a delicate  greenish  haze, 

Which  deepen’d  up  into  purple  greys, 

With  stars  aloft  as  the  light  decreas’d, 

Till  the  great  moon  rose  in  the  rich  blue  east. 

And  Morning  ! — each  pane  a garden  of  frost, 

Of  delicate  flowering,  as  quickly  lost; 

For  the  stalks  are  fed  by  the  moon’s  cold  beams, 
And  the  leaves  are  woven  like  woof  of  dreams 


208 


FROST  IN  THE  HOLIDAYS. 


By  Night’s  keen  breath,  and  a glance  of  the  Sun 
Like  dreams  will  scatter  them  every  one. 

Hurra ! the  lake  is  a league  of  glass ! 

Buckle  and  strap  on  the  stiff  white  grass. 

Off  we  shoot,  and  poise  and  wheel, 

And  swiftly  turn  upon  scoring  heel ; 

And  our  flying  sandals  chirp  and  sing 
Like  a flock  of  swallows  gay  on  the  wing. 

Happy  skaters  ! jubilant  flight ! 

Easily  leaning  to  left  and  right, 

Curving,  coasting  an  islet  of  sward, 

Balancing  sharp  on  the  glassy  cord 
With  single  foot,  — ah,  wretch  unshnven  ! 

A new  star  dawns  in  the  fishes’  heaven. 

Away  from  the  crowd  with  the  wind  we  drift, 
No  vessel’s  motion  so  smoothly  swift; 

Fainter  and  fainter  the  tumult  grows, 

And  the  gradual  stillness  and  wide  repose 
Touch  with  a hue  more  soft  and  grave 
The  lapse  of  joy’s  declining  wave. 

Pure  is  the  ice ; a glance  may  sound 
Deep  through  an  awful  dim  profound 


FROST  IN  THE  HOLIDAYS. 


209 


Of  water-dungeons  where  snake-weeds  hide, 

Over  which,  as  self-upborne,  we  glide, 

Like  wizards  on  dark  adventure  bent, 

Masters  of  every  element 

Homeward ! How  the  shimmering  snow 
Kisses  our  hot  cheeks  as  we  go  ! 

Wavering  down  the  feeble  wind, 

Like  a manifold  thought  to  a Poet’s  mind, 

Till  the  earth,  and  trees,  and  icy  lakes, 

Are  slowly  clothed  with  the  countless  flakes. 

But  the  village  street  — the  stir  and  noise ! 
Where  long  black  slides  run  mad  with  boys ; 
Where  the  pie  is  kept  hot , in  sequence  due, 
Aristocrat  now  the  hobnail  shoe  ; 

And  the  quaint  white  bullets  fly  here  and 
there, 

With  laugh  and  shout  in  the  wintry  air. 

In  the  clasp  of  Home,  by  the  ruddy  fire, 

Ranged  in  a ring  to  our  heart’s  desire,  — 

Who  is  to  tell  some  wondrous  tale, 

Almost  to  turn  the  warm  cheeks  pale, 

Set  chin  on  hands,  make  grave  eyes  stare, 

Draw  slowly  nearer  each  stool  and  chair  ? 

14 


210 


FROST  IN  THE  HOLIDAYS. 


The  one  low  voice  goes  wandering  on 
Through  a mystic  world,  whither  all  are  gone 
The  shadows  dance ; little  Caroline 
Has  stolen  her  fingers  up  into  mine. 

But  the  night  outside  is  very  chill, 

And  the  Frost  hums  loud  at  the  window-sill. 


XXIX. 


DEATH  DEPOSED. 

Death  stately  came  to  a young  man,  and  said, 

“ If  thou  wert  dead, 

What  matter  ? ” The  young  man  replied, 

“ See  my  young  bride, 

Whose  life  were  all  one  blackness  if  I died. 

My  land  requires  me  ; and  the  world’s  self,  too, 

Methinks,  would  miss  some  things  that  I can  do.” 

Then  Death  in  scorn  this  only  said, 

“ Be  dead.” 

And  so  he  was.  And  soon  another’s  hand 
Made  rich  his  land. 

The  sun,  too,  of  three  summers  had  the  might 

To  bleach  the  widow’s  hue,  light  and  more  light, 
Again  to  bridal  white. 

And  nothing  seem’d  to  miss  beneath  that  sun 
His  work  undone. 

But  Death  soon  met  another  man,  whose  eye 
Was  Nature’s  spy; 


212 


DEATH  DEPOSED. 


Who  said,  “ Forbear  thy  too  triumphant  scorn. 
The  weakest  born 

Of  all  the  sons  of  men,  is  by  his  birth 
Heir  of  the  Might  Eternal ; and  this  Earth 
Is  subject  to  him  in  his  place. 

Thou  leav’st  no  trace. 

“ Thou,  — the  mock  Tyrant  that  men  fear  and 
hate, 

Grim  fleshless  Fate, 

Cold,  dark,  and  wormy  thing  of  loss  and  tears ! 
Not  in  the  sepulchres 

Hast  lodging,  but  in  my  own  crimson’d  heart ; 
Where  while  it  beats  we  call  thee  Life.  De- 
part ! 

A name,  a shadow,  into  any  gulf, 

Out  of  this  world,  which  is  not  thine, 

But  mine : 

Or  stay  ! — because  thou  art 
Only  Myself.” 


XXX. 


ON  THE  TWILIGHT  POND. 

A shadowy  fringe  the  fir-trees  make, 
Where  sunset  light  hath  been  ; 

The  liquid  thrills  to  one  gold  flake, 

And  Hesperus  is  seen  ; 

Our  boat  and  we,  not  half  awake, 

Go  drifting  down  the  pond, 

While  slowly  calls  the  Rail,  “ Crake-crake," 
From  meadow-flats  beyond. 

This  happy,  circling,  bounded  view  * 
Embraces  us  with  home; 

To  far  worlds  kindling  in  the  blue, 

Our  upward  thoughts  may  roam; 

Whence,  with  the  veil  of  scented  dew 
That  makes  the  earth  so  sweet, 

A touch  of  astral  brightness  too, 

A peace  — which  is  complete. 


GEORGE  LEVISON ; OR,  THE  SCHOOL- 
FELLOWS* 


The  noisy  sparrows  in  our  clematis 
Talk’d  about  rain ; a quiet  summer  dusk 
Shadowing  the  little  lawn  and  garden-ground 
Which  part  us  from  the  village  street  below. 

One  pale  pure  star  — one  altar  newly  lit, 

Amidst  the  carbuncle  and  beryl  bum’d 
Of  twilight’s  vast  cathedral ; but  the  clouds 
Were  gravely  gathering,  and  a fitful  breeze 
Flurried  the  foliage  that  till  now  had  droop’d. 

A p'icture,  steadfast  on  the  fading  sky, 

And  wafted,  showering  from  their  golden  boss, 
The  petals  of  the  white-rose  overblown. 

Our  wall  being  low  upon  the  inner  side, 

A great  white-rosebush  stoops  across,  to  note, 

Up  to  the  churchyard-gate,  down  to  the  brook, 
And  lifted  fields  beyond  with  grove  and  hedge, 

* First  published  in  Mr.  Dickens’s  Household  Words , 
December  12,  1857. 


THE  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 


215 


The  doings  of  the  village,  all  day  long ; 

From  when  the  labourers  trudging  to  their  toil 
With  sickle,  scythe,  or  spade,  hear  outpost  cocks 
Whistle  a quaint  refrain  from  farm  to  farm, 

Until  the  hour  of  shadow  and  repose, 

When  footsteps  cease,  and  every  taper’s  quench’d. 
Children  that  pass  to  school,  or  home  again, 

One  with  an  arm  about  another’s  neck, 

Point  to  the  fragrant  treasure,  clustering  rich, 
And  for  a dropping  rosebud  pay  a smile. 

The  sun  was  down  ; the  loyal  garden-blooms 
Shut  all  their  dreaming  colours ; and  a Flower 
Was  closing  like  the  rest,  a Flower  of  Flowers. 
That  herald  star  which  look’d  across  the  world 
Found  nothing  prettier  than  our  little  child 
Saying  his  evening  prayer  at  mother’s  knee, 

The  white  skirt  folding  on  the  naked  feet, 

Too  tender  for  rough  ways,  his  eyes  at  rest 
On  his  mother’s  face,  a window  into  heaven. 
Kiss’d  now,  and  settled  in  his  cot,  he’s  pleased 
With  murmuring  song,  until  the  large  lids  droop 
And  do  not  rise,  and  slumber’s  regular  breath 
Divides  the  soft  round  mouth.  So  Annie’s  boy 
And  mine  was  put  asleep.  I heard  her  foot 
Stir  overhead.  There  would  be  time  to-night, 


216 


GEOKGE  LEVISON;  OKy 


Before  the  rain,  to  loiter  half-an-hour 
As  far  as  to  the  poplars  down  the  road. 

And  hear  the  corncrakes  through  the  meadowy 
vale, 

And  watch  the  childhood  of  the  virgin  moon 
Over  a ruddy  sunset’s  marge  of  cloud 
Sinking  its  crescent.  Sweetheart  of  my  life  1 
Green  be  those  downs  and  dells  above  the  sea, 
Smooth-green  for  ever,  by  the  plough  unhurt, 
Nor  overdrifted  by  their  neighbouring  sands, 
Where  first  I saw  you  ! first  since  long  ago, 
When  we  were  children  at  an  inland  place 
And  play’d  together.  I had  often  thought, 

I wonder  should  I know  that  pleasant  child  ? 
Hardly,  I doubt.  I knew  her  the  first  glimpse; 
Ev’n  while  the  flexile  curvature  of  hat 
Kept  all  her  face  in  shadow  to  the  chin. 

And  when  a breeze  to  which  the  harebells 
danced 

Lifted  the  sun  a moment  to  her  eyes, 

The  ray  of  recognition  flew  to  mine 
Through  all  the  dignity  of  womanhood. 

Like  dear  old  friends  we  were,  yet  wondrous 
new; 

The  others  chatted,  she  and  I not  much; 
Hearing  her  ribbon  whirring  in  the  wind 


THE  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 


217 


(No  doubting  hopes  nor  whimsies  born  as  yet) 
Was  pure  felicity,  like  his  who  sleeps 
Within  a sense  of  some  unknown  good-fortune, 
True,  or  of  dreamland,  undetermined  which ; 
My  spirit  buoyant  as  the  gulls  that  swept 
That  line  of  cliff  above  the  summer  surge, 
Smooth-wing’d  and  snowy  in  the  blue  of  air. 
Since,  what  vicissitude  ! We  read  the  past 
Bound  in  a volume,  catch  the  story  up 
At  any  leaf  we  choose,  and  much  forget 
How  every  blind  to-morrow  was  evolved, 

How  each  oracular  sentence  shaped  itself 
For  after-comprehension. 

Even  so, 

This  twilight  of  last  summer,  it  befell ; 

My  wife  and  boy  up-stairs,  I leaning  grave 
Against  the  window;  when  through  favourite 
paths, 

My  memory,  as  if  sauntering  in  a wood. 

Took  sober  joy  : an  evening  which  itself 
Returns  distinctly.  Troops  of  dancing  moths 
Brush’d  the  dry  grass  ; I heard,  as  if  from  far, 
The  children  playing  in  the  village-street, 

And  saw  the  widow,  our  good  neighbour,  light 
Her  candle,  sealing  up  the  mail.  At  six, 


218 


GEORGE  LEVI  SON  ; OR, 


Announced  by  cheerful  octaves  of  a horn. 

A pair  of  winking  wheels  shake  the  white  rose, 
Arrive  at  six,  depart  again  at  nine, 

And  just  at  tea-time,  with  the  day’s  work 
done  — 

A link  of  the  year’s  order,  lest  we  lose 
In  floating  tangle  every  thread  of  life  — 

Appears  in  happy  hour  the  lottery-bag ; 

Which,  with  its  punctual  “ Times,”  may  bring  us 
word 

From  Annie’s  house  ; or  some  one  by  the 
Thames, 

The  smoky  friendly  Thames,  who  thinks  of  us; 
Or  sultry  Ganges,  or  Saint  Lawrence  chill, 

Or  from  the  soil  of  kangaroos  and  gold, 

Magnetic  metal ! Thus  to  the  four  winds 
One’s  ancient  comrades  scatter  through  the  world. 
Where’s  Georgy  now,  I thought,  our  dread,  our 
pride, 

George  Levison,  the  sultan  of  the  school  ? 

With  Greek  and  Latin  at  those  fingers’  ends 
That  sway’d  the  winning  oar  and  bat ; a prince 
In  pocket-money  and  accoutrement ; 

A Cribb  in  fist,  a Cicero  in  tongue  ; 

Already  victor,  when  his  eye  should  deign 
To  fix  on  any  summit  of  success. 


THE  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 


219 


For,  in  his  haughty  careless  way,  he’d  hint  — 

44  I’ve  got  to  push  my  fortune,  by-and-by.” 

How  we  all  worshipp’d  Georgy  Levison  ! 

But  when  I went  to  college  he  was  gone, 

The}'  said  to  travel,  and  he  took  away 
Mentor  conjoin’d  with  Crichton  from  my  hopes, — 
No  trifling  blank.  George  had  done  little  there, 
But  could  — what  could  he  not?  . . . And  now, 
perhaps, 

Some  city,  in  the  strangers’  burial-ground, 

Some  desert  sand,  or  hollow  under  sea, 

Hides  him  without  an  epitaph.  So  men 
Slip  under,  fit  to  shape  the  world  anew ; 

And  leave  their  trace  — in  schoolboy  memories. 

Then  I went  thinking  how  much  changed  I am 
Since  those  old  school-times,  not  so  far  away, 

Yet  now  like  preexistence.  Can  that  house, 
Those  fields  and  trees,  be  extant  anywhere  ? 
Have  not  all  vanish’d,  place,  and  time,  and  men  ? 
Or  with  a journey  could  I find  them  all, 

And  myself  with  them,  as  I used  to  be  ? 

Sore  was  my  battle  after  quitting  these. 

No  one  thing  fell  as  plann’d  for;  sorrows  came 
And  sat  beside  me ; years  of  toil  went  round ; 
And  victory’s  self  was  pale  and  garlandless. 


220 


GEOKGE  LEVISON  ; OR, 


Fog  rested  on  my  heart;  till  softly  blew 
The  wind  that  clear’d  it.  ’Twas  a simple  turn 
Of  life,  — a miracle  of  heavenly  love, 

For  which,  thank. God! 

When  Annie  call’d  me  up, 
We  both  bent  silent,  looking  at  our  boy; 

Kiss’d  unaware  (as  angels,  may  be,  kiss 
Good  mortals)  on  the  smoothly  rounded  cheek, 
Turn’d  from  the  window,  — where  a fringe  of 
leaves, 

With  outlines  melting  in  the  darkening  blue, 
Waver’d  and  peep’d  and  whisper’d.  Would  she 
walk 

Not  yet  a little  were  those  clouds  to  stoop 
With  freshness  to  the  garden  and  the  field. 

I waited  by  our  open  door;  while  bats 
Flew  silently,  and  musk  geranium-leaves 
Were  fragrant  in  the  twilight  that  had  quench’d 
Or  tamed  the  dazzling  scarlet  of  their  blooms. 
Peace,  as  of  heaven  itself,  possess’d  my  heart. 

A footstep,  not  the  light  step  of  my  wife, 
Disturb’d  it ; and,  with  slacker  pace,  a man 
Came  up  beside  the  porch.  Accosting  whom, 
And  answering  to  my  name  : u I fear,”  he  said, 

“ You’ll  hardly  recollect  me  ; though  indeed 


THE  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 


221 


We  were  at  school  together  on  a time. 

Do  you  forget  old  Georgy  Levison  ? ” 

He  in  the  red  arm-chair ; 1 not  far  off, 
Excited,  laughing,  waiting  for  his  face  : 

The  first  flash  of  the  candles  told  me  all : 

Or,  if  not  all,  enough,  and  more.  Those  eyes, 
When  they  look’d  up  at  last,  were  his  indeed, 
Though  mesh’d  in  ugly  threads  as  with  a snare ; 
And,  while  his  mouth  preserved  the  imperious 
curve, 

Evasion,  vacillation,  discontent, 

Warp’d  all  the  handsome  features  out  of  place. 
His  hair  hung  prematurely  grey  and  thin  ; 

From  threadbare  sleeves  the  wither’d  tremulous 
hands 

Protruded.  Why  paint  every  touch  of  blight? 

Tea  came.  He  hurried  into  ceaseless  chat ; 
Glanced  at  the  ways  of  many  foreign  towns ; 
Knew  all  those  great  men,  landmarks  of  the 
time, 

And  set  their  worths  punctiliously ; brought  back 
Our  careless  years ; paid  Annie  compliments 
To  spare ; admired  the  pattern  of  the  cups ; 
Lauded  the  cream,  — our  dairy’s,  was  it  not  ? 


222 


GEORGE  LEVISON;  OR, 


A country  life  was  pleasant,  certainly, 

If  one  could  be  content  to  settle  down  ; 

And  yet  the  city  had  advantages. 

He  trusted,  shortly,  underneath  his  roof 
To  practise  hospitality  in  turn. 

But  first  to  catch  the  roof,  eh  ? Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
That  was  a business  topic  he’d  discuss 
With  his  old  friend  by-and-by 


For  me,  I long’d 

To  hide  my  face  and  groan ; yet  look’d  at  him  ; 
Opposing  pain  to  grief,  presence  to  thought. 

Later,  when  wine  came  in,  and  we  two  sat 
The  dreary  hours  together,  how  he  talk’d ! 

His  schemes  of  life,  his  schemes  of  work  and 
wealth, 

Intentions  and  inventions,  plots  and  plans, 
Travels  and  triumphs,  failures,  golden  hopes. 

He  was  a young  man  still — had  just  begun 
To  see  his  way.  I knew  what  he  could  do 
If  once  he  tried  in  earnest.  He’d  return 
To  Law,  next  term  but  one ; meanwhile  com- 
plete 

His  great  work,  u The  Philosophy  of  Life, 

Or,  Man’s  Relation  to  the  Universe,” 


THE  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 


223 


The  matter  lying  ready  to  his  hand. 

Forty  subscribers  more,  two  guineas  each, 

Would  make  it  safe  to  publish.  All  this  time 
He  fill’d  his  glass  and  emptied,  and  his  tongue 
Went  thick  and  stammering.  When  the  wine 
came  in 

I saw  the  glistering  eye ; an  eager  hand 
Made  the  decanter  chatter  on  the  glass 
Like  ague.  He  grew  maudlin  drunk  at  last ; 
Shed  tears,  and  moan’d  he  was  a ruin’d  man, 
Body  and  soul ; then  cursed  his  enemies 
By  name  and  promised  punishment ; made  vaunt 
Of  genius,  learning ; caught  my  hand  again,  — 
Did  I forget  my  friend  — my  dear  old  friend? 
Had  I a coat  to  spare  ? He  had  no  coat 
But  this  one  on  his  back ; not  one  shirt  — see ! 
’Twas  all  a nightmare ; all  plain  wretched  truth. 
And  how  to  play  physician  ? Where’s  the 
strength 

Repairs  a slow  self-ruin  from  without  ? 

The  fall’n  must  climb  innumerable  steps, 

With  humbleness,  and  diligence,  and  pain. 

How  help  him  to  the  first  of  all  that  steep  ? 

Midnight  was  past.  I had  proposed  to  find 
A lodging  near  us ; for,  to  say  the  truth, 


224 


GEORGE  LEVISON;  OR, 


I could  not  bid  my  wife,  for  such  a guest, 

In  such  a plight,  prepare  the  little  room 
C ail’d  u Emma’s  ” since  my  sister  first  was  here. 
Then  with  a sudden  mustering  up  of  wits, 

And  ev’n  a touch  of  his  old  self,  that  quick 
Melted  my  heart  anew,  he  signified 
His  bed  was  waiting,  he  would  say  good-night, 
And  begg’d  me  not  to  stir,  he  knew  his  road. 
But  arm  in  arm  I brought  him  up  the  street, 
Among  the  rainpools  and  the  pattering  drops 
Drumming  upon  our  canopy ; where  few 
Or  none  were  out  of  doors ; and  once  or  twice 
Some  casement  from  an  upper  story  shed 
Penurious  lamplight. 

Tediously  we  kept 

The  morning  meal  in  vain  expectancy. 

Our  box  of  clothes  came  back  ; the  people  said 
He  paid  without  a word,  and  went  his  way,  — 
They  knew  not  whither.  He  return’d  no  more. 
He  now  is  dead. 


Months  changed  about,  or  ere 
The  sudden  frost  of  that  unhappy  guest 
Hose  from  our  life,  — which,  like  our  village, 
keeps 


THE  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 


225 


The  tranquil  centre  of  a cultured  vale, 

Guarded  with  hills,  but  open  to  the  sun, 

And  every  star  successive,  east  or  west, 

That  glorifies  the  circle  of  the  year. 

A grave,  secluded  life,  but  kindly  fill’d 
With  natural  influences ; neither  void 
Of  strength  and  gladness  from  profounder  springs, 
And  since,  at  many  a meditative  hour 
By  day  or  night,  or  with  memorial  flash, 

I see  the  ghost  of  Georgy  Levison  ; 

A shifting  phantom,  — now  with  boyhood’s  face 
And  merry  curls ; now  haggard  and  forlorn, 

As  when  the  candles  came  into  the  room. 

One  sells  his  soul ; another  squanders  it ; 

The  first  buys  up  the  world,  the  second  starves. 
Poor  George  was  loser  palpably  enough,  — 
Supernal  Wisdom  only  knows  how  much. 


15 


THE  MOWERS. 


Where  mountains  round  a lonely  dale 
Our  cottage-roof  inclose, 

Come  night  or  morn,  the  hissing  pail 
With  yellow  cream  o’er  flows*; 

And  roused  at  break  of  day  from  sleep, 
And  cheerly  trudging  hither,  — 

A scythe-sweep,  and  a scythe-sweep, 

We  mow  the  grass  together. 

The  fog  drawn  up  the  mountain  side 
And  scatter’d  flake  by  flake, 

The  chasm  of  blue  above  grows  wide, 
And  richer  blue  the  lake ; 

Gay  sunlights  o’er  the  hillocks  creep, 
And  join  for  golden  weather,  — 

A scythe-sweep,  and  a scythe-sweep, 

We  mow  the  dale  together. 

The  good  wife  stirs  at  five,  we  know, 
The  master  soon  comes  round, 


THE  MOWERS. 


227 


And  many  swaths  must  lie  a-row 
Ere  breakfast-horn  shall  sound  ; 

The  clover  and  the  florin  deep, 

The  grass  of  silvery  feather,  — 

A scythe-sweep,  and  a scythe-sweep, 

We  mow  the  dale  together. 

The  noontide  brings  its  welcome  rest 
Our  toil-wet  brows  to  dry ; 

Anew  with  merry  stave  and  jest 
The  shrieking  hone  we  ply. 

White  falls  the  brook  from  steep  to  steep 
Among  the  purple  heather,  — 

A scythe-sweep.,  and  a scythe-sweep, 

We  mow  the  dale  together. 

For  dial,  see,  our  shadows  turn  ; 

Low  lies  the  stately  mead  : 

A scythe,  an  hourglass,  and  an  urn  — 
All  flesh  is  grass , we  read. 

To-morrow’s  sky  may  laugh  or  weep, 

To  Heav’n  we  leave  it  whether,  — 

A scythe-sweep,  and  a scythe-sweep, 
We’ve  done  our  task  together. 


ABBEY.  ASSAROE. 


Grey,  grey  is  Abbey  Assaroe,  by  Ballyshannon 
town. 

It  has  neither  door  nor  window,  the  walls  are 
broken  down ; 

The  carven  stones  lie  scatter’d  in  briar  and  net- 
tle-bed ; 

The  only  feet  are  those  that  come  at  burial  of 
the  dead. 

A little  rocky  rivulet  runs  murmuring  to  the  tide, 

Singing  a song  of  ancient  days,  in  sorrow,  not 
in  pride ; 

The  boor-tree*  and  the  lightsome  ash  across  the 
portal  grow, 

And  heaven  itself  is  now  the  roof  of  Abbey  Assaroe. 

It  looks  beyond  the  harbour-stream  to  Gulban  f 
mountain  blue; 

It  hears  the  voice  of  Erna’s  fall,  — Atlantic 
breakers  too; 

* Local  name  fbr  the  elder  ( sambucus  nigra.) 
t Usually  but  incorrectly  named  Ben  Bulban . 


ABBEY  ASSAROE. 


229 


High  ships  go  sailing  past  it;  the  sturdy  clank 
of  oars 

Brings  in  the  salmonboat  to  haul  a net  upon  the 
shores ; 

And  this  way  to  his  home-creek,  when  the  sum- 
mer day  is  done, 

The  weary  fisher  sculls  his  punt  across  the  set- 
ting sun ; 

While  green  with  corn  is  Sheegus  Hill,  his  cot- 
tage white  below ; — 

But  grey  at  every  season  is  Abbey  Assaroe. 

There  stood  one  day  a poor  old  man  above  its 
broken  bridge  ; 

He  heard  no  running  rivulet,  he  saw  no  moun- 
tain-ridge ; 

He  turn’d  his  back  on  Sheegus  Hill,  and  view’d 
with  misty  sight 

v The  abbey  walls,  the  burial-ground  with  crosses 
ghostly  white; 

Under  a weary  weight  of  years  he  bow’d  upon 
his  staff, 

Perusing  in  the  present  time  the  former’s  epitaph ; 

For,  grey  and  wasted  like  the  walls,  a figure  full 
of  woe, 

This  man  was  of  the  blood  of  them  who  founded 
Assaroe. 


230 


ABBEY  ASSAROE. 


From  Derry  Gates  to  Drowas  Tower*  Tyrconnell 
broad  was  theirs; 

Herdsmen  and  spearmen,  bards  and  wine,  and 
holy  abbots’  prayers, 

With  chanting  always  in  the  house  which  they 
had  builded  high 

To  God  and  to  Saint  Bernard,  — whereto  they 
came  to  die. 

At  least,  no  workhouse  grave  for  him!  the  ruins 
of  his  race 

Shall  rest  among  the  ruin’d  stones  of  this  their 
saintly  place. 

The  fond  old  man  was  weeping;  a^id  tremulous 
and  slow 

Along  the  rough  and  worked  lane  he  crept  from 
Assaroe. 


AMONG  THE  HEATHER. 


One  evening  walking  out,  I o’ertook  a modest 
colleen ,* 

When  the  wind  was  blowing  cool,  and  the  har- 
vest leaves  were  falling. 

“Is  our  road,  by  chance,  the  same?  might  we 
travel  on  together?” 

“01  keep  the  mountain  side,  (she  replied) 
among  the  heather.” 

“ Your  mountain  air  is  sweet  when  the  days  are 
long  and  sunny, 

When  the  grass  grows  round  the  rocks,  and  the 
whinbloom  smells  like  honey ; 

But  the  winter’s  coming  fast  with  its  foggy, 
snowy  weather, 

And  you’ll  find  it  bleak  and  chill  on  your  hill 
among  the  heather.” 

* Colleen , a young  girl. 


232 


AMONG  THE  HEATHER. 


She  praised  her  mountain  home : and  111  praise 
it  too,  with  reason, 

For  where  Molly  is,  there’s  sunshine  and  flow’rs 
at  every  season. 

Be  the  moorland  black  or  white,  does  it  signify 
a feather, 

Now  I know  the  way  by  heart,  every  part, 
among  the  heather? 


The  sun  goes  down  in  haste,  and  the  night  falls 
thick  and  stormy; 

Yet  I’d  travel  twenty  miles  with  the  welcome 
that’s  before  me; 

Singing  hi  for  Eskydun,  in  the  teeth  of  wind  and 
weather ! 

Love  ’ill  warm  me  as  I go  through  the  snow, 
among  the  heather. 


EVERY  DAY. 


Let  us  not  teach  and  preach  so  much, 
But  cherish,  rather  than  profess; 

Be  careful  how  the  thoughts  we  touch 
Of  God,  and  Love,  aud  Holiness, — 

A charm,  most  spiritual,  faint, 

And  delicate,  forsakes  the  breast, 
Bird-like,  when  it  perceives  the  taint 
Of  prying  breath  upon  its  nest. 

Using,  enjoying,  let  us  live; 

Set  here  to  grow,  what  should  we  do 
But  take  what  soil  and  climate  give  ? 

For  thence  must  come  our  sap  and  hue 

Blooming  as  sweetly  as  we  may, 

Nor  beckon  comers,  nor  debar; 

Let  them  take  balm  or  gall  away, 
According  as  their  natures  are. 


234 


EVERY  DAY. 


Look  straight  at  all  things  from  the  soul, 
But  boast  not  much  to  understand; 

Make  each  new  action  sound  and  whole, 
Then  leave  it  in  its  place  unscann’d  : 

Be  true,  devoid  of  aim  or  care, 

Nor  posture,  nor  antagonise  : 

Know  well  that  clouds  of  this  our  air 
But  seem  to  wrap  the  mighty  skies 

Search  starry  mysteries  overhead, 

Where  wonders  gleam ; yet  bear  in  mind 

That  Earth’s  our  planet,  firm  to  tread, 
Nor  in  the  star-dance  left  behind. 

For  nothing  is  withheld,  be  sure, 

Our  being  needed  to  have  shown  ; 

The  far  was  meant  to  be  obscure, 

The  near  was  placed  so  to  be  known. 

Cast  we  no  astrologic  scheme 

To  map  the  course  we  must  pursue ; 

But  use  the  lights  whene’er  they  beam, 

And  every  trusty  landmark  too. 

The  Future  let  us  not  permit 

To  choke  us  in  its  shadow’s  clasp  ; 


EVERY  DAY. 


235 


It  cannot  touch  us,  nor  we  it; 

The  present  moment’s  in  our  grasp. 

Soul  severed  from  the  Truth  is  Sin ; 

The  dark  and  dizzy  gulph  is  Doubt ; 
Truth  never  moves,  — unmoved  therein, 

Our  road  is  straight  and  firm  throughout. 

This  Road  for  ever  doth  abide. 

The  universe,  if  fate  so  call, 

May  sink  away  on  either  side; 

But  This  and  God  at  once  shall  fall. 


NIGHT  WIND. 


Moaning  blast,* 

The  summer  is  past,  - 
And  time  and  life  are  speeding  fast ! 

Wintry  wind, 

Oh,  where  to  find 

The  hopes  we  have  left  so  far  behind! 

Mystery  cold, 

To  thee  have  they  told 
Secrets  the  years  will  never  unfold  ? 

Sorrow  of  night, 

Is  love  so  light 

As  to  come  and  go  like  a breeze’s  flight? 

Opiate  balm, 

Is  death  so  calm 

As  to  faint  in  the  ear  like  a distant  psalm? 


SIR  MARMADUKE  POLE. 


Sir  Marmaduke  Pole  was  a sturdy  old  knight, 

Who  in  war  and  in  peace  had  done  every  man 
right ; 

Had  lived  with  his  neighbours  in  loving  accord, 

Save  the  Abbot  and  Monks,  whom  he  fiercely 
abhorr’d, 

And  to  their  feet  alone  refused  oak-floor  and 
sward. 

With  guests  round  his  table,  good  servants  at 
call, 

His  laughter  made  echo  the  wide  castle-hall ; 

He  whoop’d  to  the  falcon,  he  hunted  the  deer ; 

If  down  by  the  Abbey,  his  comrades  could 
hear — 

u A plague  on  these  mummers,  who  mime  all 
the  year ! ” 

And  now  see  him  stretch’d  on  his  leave-taking 
bed. 

Five  minutes  ago  with  a calm  smile  he  said, 


238 


SIR  MARMADUKE  POLE. 


u I can  trust  my  poor  soul  to  the  Lord  God  of 
Heaven, 

“ Though  living  unpriested  and  dying  unshriven. 
“ Say  all  of  you,  friends,  4 May  his  sins  be  for- 
given ! ’ ” 

But  some  who  are  near  to  him  sorely  repine 
He  thus  should  decease  like  an  ox  or  a swine ; 
So  a message  in  haste  to  the  Abbey  they  send, 
When  the  voice  cannot  ring,  and  the  arm  can- 
not bend ; 

For  this  reign,  as  all  reigns  do,  approaches  an  end. 

Says  my  Lady,  “ Too  long  I have  yielded  my 
mind.” 

Son  Bichard  to  go  with  the  world  ” is  inclined. 
M Sweet  Mother  of  Mercy  !”  sobs  Jane,  his  young 
• spouse, 

u O Saviour,  forget  not  my  tears  and  my  vows ! ” 
In  pray’r  for  the  dying  her  spirit  she  bows. 

At  once  the  good  Abbot  forgets  every  wrong, 
And  speeds  to  the  gate  which  repell’d  him  so 

long ; 

The  stairs  (“Pax  vobiscum ”)  are  strange  to  his 
tread ; 


SIR  MARMADUKE  POLE. 


239 


He  puts  every  one  forth.  Not  a sound  from 
that  bed ; 

And  the  spark  from  beneath  the  white  eyebrow 
is  fled. 

Again  the  door  opens,  all  enter  the  place 

Where  pallid  and  stern  lies  the  well-belov’d  face. 

u The  Church,  through  God’s  help  and  Saint 
Simon’s,  hath  won 

“ To  her  bosom  of  pity  a penitent  son.” 

See  the  cross  on  his  breast ; hark,  the  knell  is 
begun. 

Who  feasts  with  young  Richard  ? who  shrives  the 
fair  Jane  ? 

Whose  mule  to  the  Castle  jogs  right,  without 
rein  ? 

Our  Abbey  has  moorland  and  meadowland  wide, 

Where  Marmaduke  hunting  and  hawking  would 
© © 

ride, 

With  his  priest-hating  humours  and  paganish 
pride. 

In  the  chancel  the  tomb  is,  of  Marmaduke  Pole. 

Ten  thousand  full  masses  were  said  for  his 
soul, 


240 


SIR  MARMADUKE  POLE. 


With  praying,  and  tinkling,  and  incense,  and 
flame ; 

In  the  centre  whereof,  without  start  or  exclaim, 

His  bones  fell  to  dust,  you  may  still  read  the 
name, 

’Twixt  an  abbot’s  and  bishop’s  who  once  were 
of  fame. 


AUTUMN  LANDSCAPE. 


October  skies  are  misty,  cool,  and  grey, 

The  stubbles  emptied  of  their  latest  sheaf, 

The  meadow  of  its  mounds;  a noble  grief 
Has  beautified  the  woods  in  their  decay ; 

How  many  colours  on  the  falling  leaf 
Encurtaining  our  solemn  hills  to-day, 

Whose  afternoon  is  hush’d  and  wintry  brief  1 
Only  a robin  sings  from  any  spray. 

And  Night  sends  up  her  pale  cold  moon,  and 
spills 

White  mist  around  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 
Phantoms  of  firth  or  lake ; the  peasant  sees 
His  cot  and  stackyard,  with  the  homestead 
trees, 

In-islanded ; but  no  vain  terror  thrills 
His  perfect  harvesting ; he  sleeps  at  ease. 


16 


ROBIN  REDBREAST. 


(a  child’s  song.) 

Good-bye,  good-bye  to  Summer ! 

For  Summer’s  nearly  done; 

The  garden  smiling  faintly, 

Cool  breezes  in  the  sun ; 

Our  thrushes  now  are  silent, 

Our  swallows  flown  away,  — 

But  Robin’s  here,  in  coat  of  brown, 
And  scarlet  breastknot  gay. 

Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O Robin  dear ! 

Robin  sings  so  sweetly 
In  the  falling  of  the  year. 

Bright  yellow,  red,  and  orange, 

The  leaves  come  down  in  hosts ; 
The  trees  are  Indian  Princes. 

But  soon  they’ll  turn  to  Ghosts ; 


ROBIN  REDBREAST. 


243 


The  leathery  pears  and  apples 
Hang  russet  on  the  bough ; 

It’s  Autumn,  Autumn,  Autumn  late, 
'Twill  soon  be  winter  now. 

Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O Robin  dear! 

And  what  will  this  poor  Robin  do  ? 
For  pinching  days  are  near. 

The  fireside  for  the  cricket, 

The  wheatstack  for  the  mouse, 

When  trembling  nightwinds  whistle 
And  moan  all  round  the  house; 

The  frosty  ways  like  iron, 

The  branches  plumed  with  snow,  — 

Alas ! in  Winter  dead  and  dark 
Where  can  poor  Robin  go? 

Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O Robin  dear ! 

And  a crumb  of  bread  for  Robin, 

His  little  heart  to  cheer. 


ANGELA. 


After  the  long  bitter  days,  and  nights  weigh’d 
down  with  my  sadness, 

Faint  I lay  on  the  sofa  with  soften’d  thoughts  in 
a twilight. 

Stilly  she  glided  in,  and  tenderly  came  she 
beside  me, 

Putting  her  arm  round  my  head  that  was  weary 
with  sorrowful  aching,  7 

Whispering  low  in  a voice  trembling  with  love 
and  with  pity, 

“ Knowest  thou  not  that  I love  thee  ? — am  I 
not  one  in  thy  sorrow? 

Maze  not  thy  spirit  in  windings,  joy  that  our 
Father  excels  us, 

Since  with  his  power  extends  the  greatness  of 
his  compassion. 

Fear  not  the  losing  of  love;  for,  listen,  a spirit 
hath  told  me 

Heaven  is  not  without  aught  that  Earth  has  of 
holy  and  lovely; 


ANGELA. 


245 


Purified  shall  they  be  found,  but  better  in  es- 
sence they  could  not ; 

Gold  in  this  earthly  alloy  has  not  come  but 
from  mines  in  the  Great  Heav’n. 

Thou  — move  on  in  thy  course  unswerving  from 
shades  in  the  pathway, 

Pits  and  crags  they  seem,  thou  wilt  find  them 
nothing  but  shadows. 

Take  thou  care  of  the  present,  thy  future  will 
build  itself  for  thee; 

Life  in  the  body  is  full  of  entanglements,  harsh 
contradictions,  — 

Keep  but  the  soul-realities,  all  will  unwind  itself 
duly. 

Think  of  me,  pray  for  me,  love  me,  — I cease 
not  to  love  thee,  my  dearest.” 

So  it  withdrew  and  died,  and  the  heart,  too  joy 
ful,  too  tender, 

Felt  a new  fear  of  its  pain,  and  its  want,  and 
the  desolate  evening 

Sunken,  and  dull,  and  cold.  But  quickly  a kind 
overflowing 

The  burning  eyelids  assuaged,  and  my  heart 
grew  calmer  and  calmer ; 


246 


ANGELA. 


Noting,  at  length,  how  the  gloom  acknowledged 
a subtle  suffusion, 

Veiling  with  earnest  peace  the  stars  looking  in 
through  the  window, — 

Where,  in  the  very  minute  appointed  from  num- 
berless ages, 

Slowly  up  Eastern  night,  like  a pale  smoke, 
mounted  the  moon-dawn. 


SONG. 


O Spirit  of  the  Summertime ! 

Bring  back  the  roses  to  the  dells ; 
The  swallow  from  her  distant  clime, 
The  honey-bee  from  drowsy  cells. 

Bring  back  the  friendship  of  the  sun ; 

The  gilded  evenings,  calm  and  late, 
When  merry  children  homeward  run, 
And  peeping  stars  bid  lovers  wait. 

Bring  back  the  singing;  and  the  scent 
Of  meadowlands  at  dewy  prime  ; — 
O bring  again  my  heart’s  content, 
Thou  Spirit  of  the  Summertime! 


DOGMATISM. 


“Thus  it  is  written.”  Where?  Oh,  where? 
In  the  blue  chart  of  the  air? 

In  the  sunlight  ? In  the  dark  ? 

In  the  distant  starry  spark? 

In  the  white  scroll  of  the  cloud  ? 

In  the  waved  line  of  the  flood  ? 

In  the  distant  range  of  cliff? 

In  the  rock’s  deep  hieroglyph? 

In  the  scribbled  veins  of  metal? 

In  the  tracings  on  the  petal  ? 

In  the  fire’s  fantastic  loom  ? 

In  the  fur,  or  scale,  or  plume  ? 

In  the  greeting  brother’s  glance  ? 

In  the  corpse’s  countenance  ? 

In  men’s  real  thoughts  and  ways  ? 

Time’s  long  track,  or  passing  days  ? 

In  the  cypher  of  the  whole  ? 

In  the  core  of  my  own  soul  ? 

Nay  ! — I have  sincerely  sought, 

But  no  glimpse  of  this  thing  caught. 


DOWN  ON  THE  SHORE. 


Down  on  the  shore,  on  the  sunny  shore ! 

Where  the  salt  smell  cheers  the  land; 

Where  the  tide  moves  bright  under  boundless 
light, 

And  the  surge  on  the  glittering  strand ; 
Where  the  children  wade  in  the  shallow  pools, 
Or  run  from  the  froth  in  play; 

Where  the  swift  little  boats  with  milkwhite 
wings 

Are  crossing  the  sapphire  bay, 

And  the  ship  in  full  sail,  with  a fortunate  gale, 
Holds  proudly  on  her  way. 

Where  the  nets  are  spread  on  the  grass  to  dry, 
And  asleep,  hard  by,  the  fishermen  lie, 

Under  the  tent  of  the  warm  blue  sky, 

With  the  hushing  wave  on  its  golden  floor 
To  sing  their  lullaby. 

Down  on  the  shore,  on  the  stormy  shore! 
Beset  by  a growling  sea, 


250 


DOWN  ON  THE  SHORE. 


Whose  mad  waves  leap  on  the  rocky  steep 
Like  wolves  up  a traveller’s  tree. 

Where  the  foam  flies  wide,  and  an  angry  blast 
Blows  the  curlew  off,  with  a screech ; 

Where  the  brown  sea-wrack,  torn  up  by  the 
roots, 

Is  flung  out  of  fishes’  reach ; 

Where  the  tall  ship  rolls  on  the  hidden  shoals, 
And  scatters  her  planks  on  the  beach. 
Where  slate  and  straw  through  the  village  spin, 
And  a cottage  fronts  the  fiercest  din 
With  a sailor ’«  wife  sitting  sad  within, 
Hearkening  the  wind  and  water’s  roar, 

Till  at  last  her  tears  begin. 


FAIRY  DIALOGUE. 


“Whither  goest,  brother  elf?” 

“ The  sun  is  weak  to  warm  myself 
In  a thick  red  tulip’s  core. 

Whither  thou?” 


“ Till  day  be  o’er, 
To  the  dim  and  deep  snow-palace 
Of  the  closest  lily-chalice, 

Where  is  veil’d  the  light  of  noon 
To  be  like  my  Lady’s  moon. 

Thou  art  of  the  day,  I ween?” 

“ Yet  I not  disown  our  Queen. 

Nor  at  Lyse’  am  backward  found 
When  the  mighty  feast  comes  round ; 
When  She  spreads  abroad  her  power 
To  proclaim  a midnight  hour 


252 


FAIRY  dialogue: 


For  the  pale  blue  fays  like  thee 
And  the  ruddy  elves  like  me 
To  mingle  in  a charmed  ring 
With  a perfect  welcoming ; 

Guarded  from  the  moon-stroke  cold, 
And  wisp  that  scares  us  on  the  wold.” 

“Swift  that  Night  is  drawing  near, 
When  your  abrupt  and  jovial  cheer 
Mixes  in  cur  misty  dance. 

Else  we  only  meet  by  chance, 

In  the  dark  undew’d  recesses 
Of  the  leafy  wildernesses, 

Or  thus  hid  in  some  cold  flower 
To  escape  the  sunlight  hour, 

And  more  afflictive  mortal  eye.” 

“ Gladly,  gladly,  do  I spy 
The  little  cottage-girls  go  by  — 

Feel  the  bounty  and  the  grace 
Of  a pleasant  human  face. 

O my  sister,  would  we  might 
Show  ourselves  to  mortal  sight ; 

They  sure  would  love  us  if  they  knew 
All  the  friendly  turns  we  do. 

Even  now,  a gentle  thought 


FAIRY  DIALOGUE. 


253 


Pays  our  service  dimly  wrought. 

The  paler  favourites  of  the  moon 
Cannot  give  nor  take  such  boon ! ” 

“ Chantings,  brother,  hear  you  might, 
Softly  sung  through  still  of  night: 

Calling  from  the  weird  North 
Dreams  like  distant  echoes  forth, 

Till  through  curtain’d  shades  they  creep, 
T’  inlay  the  gloomy  floor  of  sleep 
For  babes,  and  souls  that  babe-like  are : 
So  we  bless  them  from  afar 
Like  a faint  but  favouring  star. 

— But  tell  me  how  in  fields  or  bowers 
Thou  hast  spent  these  morning  hours  ? ” 

“ Through  the  tall  hedge  I have  been, 
The  shadowy  wall  of  crusted  green, 
Within  whose  heart  the  birds  are  seen. 
Speeding  swiftly  thence  away 
To  the  crowning  chestnut-spray, 

I watch’d  a tyrant  steal  along 
Would  slay  the  sweet  thrush  in  her  song; 
Warned,  she  soon  broke  off  from  singing. 
And  we  left  the  branchlet  swinging. 
Whispering  robin,  down  the  walk, 


254 


FAIRY  DIALOGUE. 


News  of  poising,  pouncing  hawk. 

The  sycamore  I next  must  strew 
On  every  leaf  with  honey-dew. 

And  hither  now  from  clouds  I run; 
For  all  my  morning  work  is  done.” 

“ Alas,  I wither  in  the  sun, 

If  I hap  to  leave  my  nest 
Ere  the  day  be  laid  to  rest! 

But  to-night  we  lightly  troop 
By  the  young  moon’s  silver  hoop; 
Weaving  wide  our  later  ranks 
As  on  the  evening  river-banks 
Shifting  crowds  of  midges  glance 
Through  mazes  of  their  airy  dance 
O might  you  come,  O might  you  tee 
All  our  shadow’d  revelry  ! 

Yet  the  next  night  shall  be  rarer, 
Next  and  next  and  next,  still  fairer; 
We  are  waxing  every  night, 

Till  our  joy  be  full  and  bright ; 

Then  as  slowly  do  we  wane 
With  gentle  loss  that  makes  no  pain. 
For  thus  are  we  with  life  indued  : 
Ye,  I guess,  have  other  food, 

Since  with  rougher  powers  ye  deal.” 


FAIRY  DIALOGUE. 


255 


“We  with  fragrant  soul  are  fed 
Of  every  flower  whose  cheek  is  red, 
Shunning  yellow,  blue,  and  white, 

And  southward  go,  at  the  nightingale’s  flight. 
Many  the  faery  nations  be. 

O ! how  I long,  I long  to  see 
The  mooned  midnight  of  our  feast 
Flushing  amber  through  the  east; 

When  every  cap  in  Elfindom 
Into  that  great  ring  shall  come  ; 

Owf  and  elf  and  fairy  blended, 

Till  th’  imperial  time  be  ended  ! 

Even  those  fantastic  Sprites 
Lay  aside  their  dear  delights 
Of  freakish  mischief  and  annoyance 
In  the  universal  joyance, 

One  of  whom  I saw  of  late 

As  I peeped  through  window-grate, 

(Under  roof  I may  not  enter) 

Haunt  the  housewife  to  torment  her ; 
Tangle  up  her  skeins  of  silk, 

Throw  a mouse  into  her  milk, 

Hide  her  thimble,  scorch  her  roast, 
Quickly  drive  her  mad  almost ; 

And  I too  vexed,  because  I would 
Have  brought  her  succour,  if  I could. 


256 


FAIIIY  DIALOGUE. 


— But  where  shall  this  be  holden,  say? 
Far  away  9 ” 

“ O,  far  away. 

Over  river  must  we  fly, 

Over  the  sea,  and  the  mountain  high, 

Over  city,  seen  afar 

Like  a low  and  misty  star,  — 

Soon  beneath  us  glittering 
Like  a million  worms.  Our  wing 
For  the  flight  will  ne’er  suffice. 

Some  are  training  flitter-mice, 

I a silver  moth.” 

“ Be  ware 

How  I’ll  thrid  the  vaulted  air! 

A dragon-fly  with  glassy  wings, 

Born  beside  the  meadow  springs, 

That  can  arrow-swiftly  glide 
Thorough  the  glowing  eventide, 

Nor  at  twilight-fall  grow  slack, 

Shall  bear  me  on  his  long  red  back. 
Dew-stars,  meteors  of  the  night, 

May  not  strike  him  with,  affright, 

He  can  needle  through  the  wood, 

That’s  like  a green  earth-chained  cloud, 


FAIRY  DIALOGUE. 


257 


Mountain-summits  deftly  rake, 

Draw  swift  line  o’er  plain  and  lake; 
If  at  Lysco  I be  last, 

Other  elves  must  journey  fast. 

Lu  a vo  ! ” 


“ But  Elf,  I rede, 

Of  all  your  herbs  take  special  heed. 

Our  Mistress  tholes  no  garden-flowers, 
Though  we  have  freedom  of  these  bowers. 
Tell  me  what  you  mean  to  treasure, 

Each  in’s  atom  ? ” 

“ Gold-of-Pleasure, 
Medic,  Plumeseed,  Fountain-arrow, 
Vervain,  Hungry-grass,  and  Yarrow, 
Quatrefoil  and  Melilot.” 

u These  are  well.  And  I have  got 
Moonwort  and  the  Filmy  Fern, 

Gathered  nicely  on  the  turn. 

But  wo  to  fairy  that  shall  bring 
Bugloss  for  an  offering, 

Toad-flax,  Barley  of  the  Wall, 

Enchanters  Nightshade,  worst  of  all. 

— Oh,  brother,  hush  ! I faint  with  fear ! 
A mortal  footstep  threatens  near.” 

17 


258 


FAIRY  DIALOGUE. 


“ None  can  see  us,  none  can  hear. 
Yet,  to  make  thee  less  afraid, 

Hush  we  both,  as  thou  hast  pray’d. 

I will  seek  the  verse  to  spell 
Written  round  my  dark  flow’r’s  bell, 
And  try  to  sing  it.  Fare-thee-well ! * 


THE  WINDING  BANKS  OF  ERNE;  OR, 
THE  EMIGRANT’S  ADIEU  TO  BALLY- 
SHANNON.  — * 


Adieu  to  Ballyshannon ! Where  I was  bred  and 
born ; 

Go  where  I may,  I’ll  think  of  you,  as  sure  as 
night  and  morn ; 

The  kindly  spot,  the  friendly  town,  where  every 
one  is  known, 

And  not  a face  in  all  the  place  but  partly  seems 
my  own.. 

There’s  not  a house  or  window,  there’s  not  a 
field  or  hill, 

But,  east  or  west,  in  foreign  lands,  I’ll  recollect 
them  still. 

I leave  my  warm  heart  with  you,  though  my 
back  I’m  forced  to  turn  — 

So  adieu  to  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding 
banks  of  Erne ! 


260 


THE  WINDING  BANKS  OF  ERNE. 


No  more  on  pleasant  evenings  we’ll  saunter 
down  the  Mall, 

Where  the  trout  is  rising  to  the  fly,  the  salmon 
to  the  fall, 

The  boat  comes  straining  on  her  net,  and  heavily 
she  creeps, 

Cast  off,  cast  off ! — she  feels  the  oars,  and  to 
her  berth  she  sweeps ; 

Now  stem  and  stern  keep  hauling,  and  gathering 
up  the  clue, 

Till  a silver  wave  of  salmon  rolls  in  among  the 
crew, 

Then  they  may  sit,  and  have  their  joke,  and  set 
their  pipes  to  burn ; — 

Adieu  to  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding  banks 
of  Erne ! 

The  music  of  the  waterfall,  the  mirror  of  the 
tide, 

When  all  the  green-hill’d  harbour  is  full  from 
side  to  side  — 

From  Portnasun  to  Bulliebawns,  and  round  the 
Abbey  Bay, 

From  the  little  rocky  island  to  Coolnargit  sand- 
hills grey; 


THE  WINDING  BANKS  OF  ERNE. 


261 


While  far  upon  the  southern  line,  to  guard  it 
like  a wall, 

The  Leitrim  mountains,  clothed  - in  blue,  gaze 
calmly  over  all, 

And  watch  the  ship  sail  up  or  down,  the  red 
flag  at  her  stern ; — 

Adieu  to  these,  adieu  to  all  the  winding  banks 
of  Erne  ! 

Farewell  to  you,  Kildony  lads,  and  them  that 
pull  an  oar, 

A lug-sail  set,  or  haul  a net,  from  the  Point  to 
Mullaghmore  ; 

From  KiJlybegs  to  Carrigan,  with  its  ocean- 
mountain  steep, 

Six  hundred  yards  in  air  aloft,  six  hundred  in 
the  deep  ; 

From  Dooran  to  the  Fairy  Bridge,  and  round 
by  Tulle n strand, 

Level  and  long,  and  white  with  waves,  where 
gull  and  curlew  stand ; — 

Head  out  to  sea  when  on  your  lee  the  breakers 
you  discern;  — 

Adieu  to  all  the  billowy  coast,  and  winding 
banks  of  Erne! 


262 


THE  WINDING  BANKS  OF  ERNE. 


Farewell  Coolmore, — Bundoran  ! and  your  sum- 
mer crowds  that  run 

From  inland  homes,  to  see  with  joy  th’  Atlan tic- 
setting  sun ; 

To  breathe  the  buoyant  salted  air,  and  sport 
among  the  waves ; 

To  gather  shells  on  sandy  beach,  and  tempt  the 
gloomy  caves ; 

To  watch  the  flowing,  ebbing  tide,  the  boats,  the 
crabs,  the  fish ; 

Young  men  and  maids  to  meet  and  smile,  and 
form  a tender  wish; 

The  sick  and  old  in  search  of  health,  for  all 
things  have  their  turn  — 

And  I must  quit  my  native  shore,  and  the 
winding  banks  of  Erne ! 


Farewell  to  every  white  cascade  from  the  Har- 
bour to  Belleek, 

And  every  pool  where  fins  may  rest,  and  ivy- 
shaded  creek ; 

The  sloping  fields,  the  lofty  rocks,  where  ash 
and  holly  grow; 

The  one  split  yew-tree  gazing  on  the  curving 
flood  below ; 


THE  WINDING  BANKS  OF  ERNE.  2G& 

The  Lough  that  winds  through  islands  under 
Turaw  mountain  green ; 

The  Castle  Caldwell’s  stretching  woods,  with 
tranquil  bays  between: 

And  Breesie  Hill,  and  many  a pond  among  the 
heath  and  fern,  — 

For  I must  say  adieu  — adieu  to  the  winding 
banks  of  Erne ! 

The  thrush  will  call  through  Camlin  groves  the 
livelong  summer  day ; 

The  water  run  by  mossy  cliff,  and  bank  with 
wild  flowers  gay ; 

The  girls  will  bring  their  work  and  sing  beneath 

• a twisted  thorn, 

Or  stray  with  sweethearts  down  the  path  among 
the  growing  corn ; 

Along  the  river-side  they  go,  where  I have 
often  been,  — 

Oh,  never  shall  I see  again  the  days  that  I have 
seen, 

A thousand  chances  are  to  one  I never  may  re- 
turn, — 

Adieu  to  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding  banks 
of  Erne  ! 


264  THE  WINDING  BANKS  OF  ERNE. 

Adieu  to  evening  dances,  when  merry  neighbours 
meet, 

And  the  fiddle  says  to  boys  and  girls  “get  up 
and  shake  your  feet,” 

To  “ shanachus  ” and  wise  old  talk  of  Erin’s 
days  gone  by  — 

Who  trenched  the  rath  on  such  a hill,  and 
where  the  bones  may  lie, 

Of  saint,  or  king,  or  warrior  chief ; with  tales  of 
fairy  power, 

And  tender  ditties  sweetly  sung  to  pass  the  twi- 
light hour, 

The  mournful  song  of  exile  is  now  for  me  to 
learn  — 

Adieu,  my  dear  companions  on  the  winding 
banks  of  Erne ! 

Now  measure  from  the  Commons  down  to  each 
end  of  the  Purt, 

From  the  Red  Barn  to  the  Abbey,  I wish  no 
one  any  hurt ; 

Search  through  the  streets,  and  down  the  Mall 
and  out  to  Portnasun, 

If  any  foes  of  mine  be  there,  I pardon  every  • 


one  : 


THE  WINDING  BANKS  OF  ERNE. 


265 


I hope  that  man  and  womankind  will  do  the 
same  by  me, 

For  my  heart  is  sore  and  heavy  at  voyaging  the 
sea. 

My  loving  friends  I’ll  bear  in  mind,  and  often 
fondly  turn, 

To  think  of  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding 
banks  of  Erne. 

If  ever  I’m  a money’d  man,  I mean,  please  God, 
to  east 

My  golden  anchor  in  the  place  where  youthful 
years  were  pass’d ; 

Though  heads  that  now  are  black  and  brown 
must  meanwhile  gather  grey, 

New  faces  rise  by  every  hearth,  and  old  ones 
drop  away  — 

Yet  dearer  still  that  Irish  hill  than  all  the  world 
beside ; 

It’s  home,  sweet  home,  where’er  I roam,  through 
lands  and  waters  wide. 

And  if  the  Lord  allows  me,  I surely  will  return 

To  my  native  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding 
banks  of  Erne. 


SUNDAY  BELLS. 


Sweet  Sunday  Bells ! your  measured  sound 
Enhances  the  repose  profound 
On  all  these  golden  fields  around, 

And  range  of  mountain,  sunshine-drown’d. 

Amid  the  cluster’d  roofs  outswells, 

And  wanders  up  the  winding  dells, 

And  near  and  far  its  message  tells, 

Your  holy  song,  sweet  Sunday  Bells ! 

Sweet  Sunday  Bells ! ye  summon  round 
The  youthful  and  the  hoary-crown’d, 

To  one  observance  gravely  bound ; 

Where  comfort,  strength,  and  joy  are  found. 

The  while  your  cadenced  voice  excels 
To  mix  a crowd  of  tender  spells 
From  marriage-peals,  and  funeral-knells, 

And  childhood’s  awe,  — sweet  Sunday  Bells! 


SUNDAY  BELLS. 


267 


O Sunday  Bells!  your  pleading  sound 
The  shady  spring  of  tears  hath  found, 

In  one  whom  neither  pew  nor  mound 
May  harbour  in  the  hallow’d  ground : 

Whose  heart  to  your  old  music  swells  ; 
Whose  soul  a deeper  thought  compels ; 
Who  like  an  alien  sadly  dwells 
Within  your  chime  — sweet  Sunday  Bells! 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  FOREST. 


Beautiful,  beautiful  Queen  of  the  Forest, 
How  art  thou  hidden  so  wondrous  deep? 
Bird  never  sung  there,  fay  never  morriced, 
All  the  trees  are  asleep. 

Nigh  the  drizzling  waterfall 

Plumed  ferns  wave  and  wither; 
Voices  from  the  woodlands  call, 

“ Hither,  O hither ! ” 

Calling  all  the  summer  day, 

Through  the  woodlands,  far  away. 

Who  by  the  rivulet  loiters  and  lingers, 
Tranced  by  a mirror,  a murmur,  a freak 
Thrown  where  the  grass’s  cool  fine  fingers 
Play  with  his  dreamful  cheek  ? 
Cautious  creatures  flitting  by, 

Mystic  sounds  fill  his  pleasure, 
Tangled  roof  inlaid  with  sky, 

Flow’rs,  heaps  of  treasure  : 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  FOREST. 


269 


Wandering  slowly  all  the  day, 

Through  the  woodlands,  far  away. 

Hush ! if  the  hiding  enchantress  thou  follow, 
Hearken  the  yew,  he  hath  secrets  of  hers  : 
The  grey  owl  stirs  in  an  oak-tree’s  hollow, 
The  wind  in  the  gloomy  firs. 

Down  among  those  dells  of  green, 
Glimpses,  whispers,  run  to  wile  thee; 
Waking  eyes  have  nowhere  seen 
Her  that  would  beguile  thee  — 
Draw  thee  on,  till  death  of  day, 
Through  the  duskwoods,  far  away. 


MEA  CULPA. 


At  me  one  night  the  angry  moon 
Suspended  to  a rim  of  cloud 
Glared  through  the  courses  of  the  wind. 
Suddenly  there  my  spirit  bow’d 
And  shrank  into  a fearful  swoon 
That  made  me  deaf  and  blind. 

We  sinn’d — we  sin  — is  that  a dream? 
We  wake  — there  is  no  voice  nor  stir; 

Sin  and  repent  from  day  to  day, 

As  though  some  reeking  murderer 
Should  dip  his  hand  in  a running  stream, 
And  lightly  go  his  way. 

Embrace  me,  fiends  and  wicked  men, 

For  I am  of  your  crew.  Draw  back, 
Pure  women,  children  with  clear  eyes. 

Let  Scorn  confess  me  on  his  rack,  — 
Stretch’d  down  by  force,  uplooking  then 
Into  the  solemn  skies! 


MEA  CULPA. 


271 


Singly  we  pass  the  gloomy  gate ; 

Some  robed  in  honour,  full  of  peace, 
Who  of  themselves  are  not  aware  ; 
Being  fed  with  secret  wickedness, 

And  comforted  with  lies  : my  fate 
Moves  fast;  I shall  come  there. 

All  is  so  usual,  hour  by  hour ; 

Men’s  spirits  are  so  lightly  twirl’d 
By  every  little  gust  of  sense ; 

Who  lays  to  heart  this  common  world? 
Who  lays  to  heart  the  Ruling  Power, 
Just,  infinite,  intense  — ? 

Thou  wilt  not  frown,  O God.  Yet  we 
Escape  not  thy  transcendent  law ; 

It  reigns  within  us  and  without. 

What  earthly  vision  never  saw 
Man’s  naked  soul  may  suddenly  see, 
Dreadful,  past  thought  or  doubt. 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALES. 


You  sweet  fastidious  Nightingales ! 

The  myrtle  blooms  in  Irish  vales, 

By  Avondhu  and  rich  Lough  Lene, 
Through  many  a grove  and  bowerlet  green 
Fair  mirror’d  round  the  loitering  skiff. 

The  purple  peak,  the  tinted  cliff, 

' The  glen  where  mountain-torrents  rave 
And  foliage  blinds  their  leaping  wave, 
Broad  emerald  meadows  fill’d  with  flow’rs, 
Embosom’d  ocean-bays  are  ours 
With  all  their  isles ; and  mystic  tow’rs 
Lonely  and  grey,  deserted  long,  — 

Less  sad  if  they  might  hear  that  perfect  song 

What  scared  ye  ? (surely  ours  of  old) 

The  sombre  Fowl  hatch’d  in  the  cold? 

King  Henry’s  Normans,  mail’d  and  stern, 
Smiters  of  gallowglass  and  kern  ? 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALES. 


273 


Or.  most  and  worst,  fraternal  feud, 

Which  sad  Iernd  long  hath  rued  ? 

Forsook  ye,  when  the  Geraldine, 

Great  chieftain  of  a glorious  line, 

Was  hunted  on  his  hills  and  slain, 

And  one  to  France  and  one  to  Spain 
The  remnant  of  the  race  withdrew? 

Was  it  from  anarchy  ye  dew, 

And  foul  oppression’s  bigot  crew, 

Wild  complaint,  and  menace  hoarse, 
Misled,  misleading  voices,  loud  and  coarse  ? 

Come  back,  O Birds,  — or  come  at  last! 
For  Ireland’s  furious  days  are  past; 

And,  purged  of  enmity  and  wrong, 

Her  eye,  her  step,  grow  calm  and  strong. 
Why  should  we  miss  that  pure  delight? 
Brief  is  the  journey,  swift  the  dight; 

And  Hesper  dnds  no  fairer  maids 
In  Grecian  or  Devonian  glades, 

No  loves  more  true  on  any  shore, 

No  lovers  loving  music  more. 

Melodious  Erin,  warm  of  heart, 

Entreats  you  ; — stay  not  then  apart, 

But  bid  the  Merles  and  Throstles  know 


18 


274 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALES. 


(And  ere  another  Mavtime  go) 

Their  place  is  in  the  second  row. 

Come  to  the  west,  dear  Nightingales ! 
The  Rose  and  Myrtle  bloom  in  Irish  vales. 


THESE  LITTLE  SONGS, 


These  little  Songs, 

Found  here  and  there, 

Single,  or  throngs, 

Floating  in  air, 

Springing  from  lea, 

Or  hid  in  the  sea,  — 

Somehow  or  other 
Have  come  together, 

I can’t  tell  how, 

But  certainly  know 

It  never  was  wit  on  an  inkstand  begot  ’em 
Remember  the  place 
And  moment  of  grace, 

Summer  or  winter,  springtime  or  autumn, 
By  sun,  moon,  stars, 

Or  a coal  in  the  bars, 

In  market  or  church, 

Graveyard  or  dance, 

When  they  came  without  search, 
Were  found  as  by  chance. 


276 


THESE  LITTLE  SONGS. 


A word,  a line, 

You  may  say  are  mine; 
But  the  best  in  the  songs, 
Whatever  it  be, 

To  you,  and  to  me, 

And  to  no  one  belongs. 


^ES  HOT  CIHCUi 

A l/ing  hc»Wnj  W. 


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